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1 



A NIGHT 



ON THE 



BANKS OF DOON, 



AND OTHER POEMS. 



BY JOHN MITCHELL, 



" Gently scan your brother man."— Burns. 



PAISLEY: 

PRINTED BY JOHN NEILSON, 

FOR THE AUTHOR. 



MDCCCXXXVIII. 



• 



.m 



1 



TO 

Mr. JOHN ROBERTSON, 

MANUFACTURER, PAISLEY, 
THESE PAGES ARE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, 

AS A 

MARK OF THE ESTEEM IN WHICH HE IS HELD 

BY 

THE AUTHOR. 



ERRATA. 

Page 23, line 8th, for sorrow read arrow. 

— 115, 2d line from bottom, for flattering read 

faltering, 

— 121, line 2d, for churlish read cheerless 



PREFACE. 



Sir Walter Scott has said of book-making, that by far 
the most difficult part to write, and the last of the per- 
formance, though placed first in order, is the Preface. 
The reason is, that a Preface is expected to give some 
account of the work, and is generally intended to conciliate 
the critic, and to introduce the work to the world with the 
best effect for procuring the public favour: two things 
which, of all others, are most calculated to puzzle an 
author's brains. 

But as " brevity is the soul of wit," so must it be with 
respect to my Preface. Suffice it to say, I had no idea of 
publishing till very lately. In January, 1837, I wrote an 
Ode for Burns' Anniversary, and had rehearsed it with 
some applause in the limited circle for which it was in- 
tended. For the present year's meeting, I had determined 
to prepare another Ode ; when, in the twilight of a 
beautiful evening in Autumn last, while traversing the 
pleasure ground in front of Ferguslie Place,* (the romantic 



* Those who recollect what Ferguslie was in the days of Mary 
Sproul, and visit it now for the first time since that period, must be 
struck with astonishment at the great change that taste and perse- 
verance has effected on a spot, which, in the days alluded to, pre- 

A 2 



VI PREFACE. 

residence of Mr. Barr of Drums) a favourite haunt of 
Tannahill, it occurred to me, that an imaginary dialogue 
between Tarn o' Shanter and Souter Johnnie, might be a 
good subject for an Anniversary Address. I prosecuted 
the idea, and the result has been, " A Night on the 
Banks of Doon." Its length precluded it from being 
delivered at any public meeting ; but several of my friends 
having seen it, they advised me to publish it. — I have ac- 
ceded to their wishes. 

My fellow- townsman, Tannahill, (whose songs still hold 
a high place amongst our national lyrics) in offering his 
work to the world, introduced it by stating, that his greatest 
ambition was to be considered respectable among the minor 



sented a succession of bare rocks, broom, furze, and brambles. 
Where Mary's house stood, a tastefully ornamented villa has sprung 
up, before which spreads a level lawn, adorned with many kinds of 
exotic plants, alternating with those that are indigenous to our own 
country. Two beautiful artificial sheets of water enliven the scene, 
on one of which an elegant boat has been placed, so that at Ferguslie, 
walking may not only be enjoyed in perfection, but an afternoon's 
enjoyment may be diversified by an aquatic excursion on the very 
spot, where, a few years ago, barren rocks abounded. The approach 
from the east has been cut through the " Whinny Knowe," a ridge 
of rocks, whch have been left (on the sides of the road) in their 
natural state, and into the recesses of which Mr Barr has inserted, 
with his usual good taste, rustic chairs, which are in excellent keeping 
with the scenery which surround them.-r-Tannahill's " Kibbock- 
stane" and " Whinny Knowe," both on the Estate of Ferguslie, have 
been adorned by Mr Barr ; the only compliment yet paid to his 
memory. 



PREFACE. Vll 

poets of his country ; — so say I. But whether this my 
humble production, as it must be held, compared with his, 
shall be found in any degree to justify my fond expecta- 
tions, the public alone must determine. 

At one time, I thought of adding notes of reference to 
the characters introduced into a " Night on the Banks of 
Doon ;" but on reflection, I have not done so ; for, to the 
reader of poetry any such would be unnecessary, Burns' 
characters being too well known to require pointing out. 

Finally, should any learned critic cast an eye over this 
little volume, let him bear in mind, that it is the production 
of an unlettered mechanic. 

Paisley, January, 1838. 



CONTENTS. 



A Night ox the Banks of Doon : 


Page 


Part I. 


9 


Part II 


32 


Lines on Burns' Anniversary, 1837, 


65 


Lines Written on Visiting Cruickston Castle, 


70 


Warriors, ..... 


74 


The Grave, ..... 


76 


Epistle to D. M., Paisley, 


78 


To my Wife, .... 


84 


Lines to the Moon, 


86 


Ronald and Ellen, .... 


89 


Beware ! ..... 


112 


Inscription for a Drinking Cup, 


114 


Lines Written on a Young Lady, 


115 


Age and Youth, , 


118 


Gold versus Fame, .... 


122 


Lines Written on Reading Lander's Voyage down the 


Miger, 125 


Morning, ..... 


129 


Thursday Night's Complaint, 


130 


To a Bride, .... 


136 


The Old Man's Soliloquy, 


138 


I wadna gie the Witching Smiles, 


142 


Finlay, . • 


143 


The Young Hero, .... 


145 


The Scottish Exile, .... 


146 


O, no ! Jamie Lad, . 


147 


On the Martyrdom of General Riego, 


149 


A Soldier's Name, . 


151 


Calder Glen, . 


152 


Anna, ...... 


153 


Now Night her Sable Cloud has spread, 


155 



NIGHT 



BANKS OF DOON. 



PART I. 



'Twas night, when from the town of Ayr, 
I bent my steps I wistna where ; 
But fate, or chance, or else the moon, 
Led me to where the brig o' Doon 
Holds o'er the stream its ancient form, 
Despite the spates or sweeping storm. 
The winds were hushed, the gliding stream 
Reflected back the moon's pale beam ; 
The painted flowers surcharged wi' dew, 
Glanced back its sober lustre too, 
And greedy owls intent on prey, 
Screamed forth an inharmonious lay. 



10 A NIGHT ON THE 

Pleased with the scene, on Doon's fair banks, 
I sought a place to rest m.y shanks, 
And muse on nature's darling, Burns, 
And man's ingratitude by turns ; 
On him whose pen was winged with fire, 
Whom sage and peasant must admire, 
While nature, or her handmaid art, 
Have influence on the human heart ! 



Yes, Burns ! Thy name will gild the age, 
Which saw thee o'er creation's page 
Cast thy far-seeing eye, and scan 
The devious ways of mystic man, 
Then paint their portraits in thy book, 
On which the latest age may look, 
And wonder that a mortal hand, 
Could passion paint in tints so bland. 



The fool, the knave, the man whose heart 
Spontaneous acts the generous part ; 
The prude, coquet, and the severe, 
Thy magic hand has made appear 



BANKS OF DOON. 11 



In colours ignorance may trace, 

So strongly hast thou marked each face. 



The timid maid, whose side-long glance, 
Her opening charms serves to enhance, 
Beneath thy plastic hand is seen, 
Start forth ! confessed creation's queen. 



Th* oppressor may the oppressor see, 
In " Man was made to Mourn" when he 
Who begs for leave to toil, must brook 
Th' insidious taunt, the freezing look, 
Which speaks as plain as words can do, 
" Begone ! what do I care for you !" 
His proud heart fain would tell the knave — 
I was not born to be a slave ; 
I beg not of your goods, I scorn 
To bend to man of woman born ; 
These hands have still my wants supplied, 
Your riches I have ne'er envied, 
But Nature tells me I've a claim, 
(And Nature's an impartial dame,) 



12 A NIGHT ON THE 

On the rich produce which she yields, 

Despite your scorn or guarded fields ; 

You never bent to till the soil, 

Your vestments are another's toil ; 

Without the aid of such as me, 

The grave would soon your dwelling be — 

Poor helpless imbecile, whose power 

Would wither like a blighted flower, 

Had men the honesty to say, 

Too long we've brooked the tyrant's sway ; 

The loathsome vampires must have blood, 

Their own will stain the crystal flood, 

Ere frugal industry again 

For bare existence strive in vain; 

Yes ! know, proud man, the time will be, 

When worth will mark the man and thee, 

And every tyrant else to worth must bend the 

knee ! 
Thoughts such as these would swell his breast, 
Now with deep grief and care oppressed, 
But Prudence whispered, " be resigned, 
Your wife, your children, bear in mind, 
The tyrant's blow may reach your home, 
No shield may ward it but the tomb ; 



BANKS OF DOON. 13 

The toiling honest man who dares, 
To hold his head erect, and bears 
An independent front, will find 
He knows but little of the kind, 
Who hold this world's goods, if he 
Expects the pampered worms to see 
Respect his virtuous bearing ; no ! 
The groveling slave, whose ready bow, 
Whose simpering smile and soulless face, 
Would barter conscience for a place, 
Alone the tyrant's smile may gain, 
The good man's scorn, and nature's stain. 



Thus undisturbed I musing lay, 
Regardless of the hour or way, 
Which stretched between me and auld Ayr, 
(The wale o' towns for killing care,) 
When distant voices smote mine ear, 
And unfeigned laughter, loud and clear, 
Called viewless echo from her rocks, 
Who glibly the approacher mocks, 
Repeating aft their laughs and jokes. 



14 A NIGHT ON THE 

The voices loud and louder grew, 
And echo grew more dinsome too, 
And hoarser brawled the rushing stream, 
The owls, too, screamed a louder scream ; 
Till half alarmed I sought a shade, 
Wi' brushwood and wi' holly made, 
Where I might see, and not be seen, 
Whoe'er might pass the sloping green, 
Which stretched between me and the stream, 
Still glittering 'neath the moon's pale beam. 



I scarce had gained my place, when lo ! 
Betwixt me and the river's flow, 
Twa figures ; ane a stalwart wight, 
Frae 'mang the trees came clean in sight, 
The ither was o' lesser size, 
And if I could believe mine eyes, 
I aft had seen the very pair, 
Or some folk like them to a hair ; 
But when, or where, I could na tell, 
Their presence struck sae like a spell 
On a' my senses, that I lay, 
Mair like a lump o' lifeless clay 



BANKS OF DOON. 15 

Than ony living thing ; yet still, 

I gazed as ane possest, until 

The twa, as fate would hae't, cam' near 

To where I showed the passion, fear, 

Better than Kemble e'er could boast, 

When first he saw old Hamlet's ghost ; 

Or Kean, when he in Richard saw, -\ 

His murdered victims ane and a', > 

The curtains o' his conscience draw, J 

And heard them utter sharper words, 

Than aught he feared in Richmond's swords. 



But that which maist my wonder raised, 
As frae my hiding place I gazed, 
Was in the twa, I saw as plain 
As e'er I saw Clohodrick stane,* 
(And reader I'm no gien to banter,) 
That prince o' farmers Tarn or Shanter, 
And Souter Johnnie was the ither, 
Sworn foe to care, yet friendship's brither 



* A huge druidical stone in the parish of Kilbarchan. 



16 A NIGHT ON THE 

But what could be the twa's intention, 
I own was past my comprehension, 
Unless to shaw a brither birsef 
Something he might again rehearse. 



Now, critics, dinna toss your nose, 
And try to make the world suppose, 
That ye alane ken truth frae lies, 
And what work will the public please, 
Its nocht but fudge ; there's mony a book, 
On which your learned eyes ne'er look, 
Will mair o' common sense infuse 
Into men's minds, than maist reviews 
And magazines that I could name ; 
Tho' ane would hae, the trump o' fame 
Belanged exclusively to them ; 
That immortality stood ready, 
Like some despairing ancient lady, 
Who ne'er had swamped her father's name 
In matrimony's hallowed flame, 



Tiie author belongs to the craft as well as Johnnie* 



BANKS OF DOON. 17 



To whoe'er would mak' the attack, 
Wi' goud and siller at his back; 
For weel we ken, the critic tribe 
Can make black white, gie them a bribe. 



" Whence this digression ?" You shall hear ; 
Methinks the critic tribe may sneer, 
And gaping ask, " How could ye ken, 
The twa frae ony ither men ? 
The story's false, for we'll be sworn, 
They baith were dead ere ye were born." 



Now that's the critic's craft, but I 
Will prove, their microscopic eye 
May sometimes wander from the right, 
And see things wrong, all else see right ; 
I'll tell them that a chiel-ca'd " Thom," 
Has snatched the bodies frae the tomb, 
O' Tarn o' Shanter and his crony, 
That pink o' coblers, Souter Johnnie ; 
And by some process only known, 
To those whom genius marks her own, 
b 2 



18 A NIGHT ON THE 

Has stamped, " Unfading !" on their forms, 
Protection sure 'gainst fell corruption's worm* ! 
Frae Burns' graphic pen he drew 
Their forms — and all can tell how true ! 
I've seen the twa I here declare, 
Within the ancient burgh o' Ayr ; 
And there they stood, near where I lay, 
O'erwhelmed wi' w r onder and dismay ; 
Trembling, yet wondrous glad to see, 
Twachielsofsic' celebrity. 



Joy sat on either face, and mirth 
Was there, to give young laughter birth, 
And moombeams brighter on them fell, 
Than art could paint or tongue could tell. 



" Guid saf's," cried Tarn, "can it be true, 
That we're the first ?" Wi' that he threw, 
His clear blue eye adown the glade, 
And keenly all around surveyed ; 
When lo ! emerging from the wood, 
Aboon where these twa worthies stood, 



BANKS OF DOON. 19 

A motley, merry group, were seen, 
Thrang pressing onwards to the green, 
On which so much o' moonlight shone, 
You'd thought it slept on it alone. 
" Od ! here they come," cried Tarn, " prepare 
To greet them wi' our noblest air ; 
Queer Rankin leads the van, and on 
His back he bears John Barleycorn, 
Safe in a cask's capacious womb, 
O'er which nae social soul will gloom ; 
And Hornbook he brings up the rear, 
Wha'll find we need nae physic here." 



Scarce had he spoke, when on the sward, 
The whole creations o' the bard, 
On whom I had been musing, broke, 
Wi' merry laugh, and gibe, and joke ; 
And 'mang the group fleet Caesar ran, 
Nor grudged that he was less than man, 
While honest Luath's kindly nature, 
Made full amends for " scrimpit stature;" 
In fact, nane blither seemed, I ween, 
Nor bounded lighter on the green, 



20 A NIGHT ON THE 

Than the " Twa Dogs," whose observations 
Stand foremost o' our bard's creations. 



Reader, you possibly have read, 
O' some lone wanderer from the dead, 
Appearing full before the sight 
O' some poor solitary wight, 
Near where a churchyard's gloomy yews, 
With solemn awe the soul imbues : 
His bristled hair, wide-staring eyes, 
And spell-bound tongue, which speech denies, 
Declare how deep his inmost soul, 
Feels terror's palsying controul. 



Just such a one I lay, yet still, 
My eyes could never drink their fill ; 
I eagerly surveyed each motion, 
With as intense and deep devotion, 
As pilgrim e'er viewed hallowed shrine — 
But fear the basis formed o' mine. 



BANKS OF DOON. 21 

The Jolly Beggars a' were there ; 
The sprites that o'er the brigs o' Ayr 
Preside, had joined the merry throng, 
And lightly footed it along, 
Unmindful of their former jars, 
When Burns o'erheard their wordy wars, 
And airily swept o'er the green, 
As if of mist their forms had been ; 
Their robes the streamer's transient glow ! 
Their tones soft music's rapturous flow ! 
The hardy Thistle's form waved o'er, 
The sprite who Ayr's auld banner bore ; 
While roses, shamrocks, thistles, shone 
On her young neighbour's azure zone ; 
Yet friendship smiled in either face, 
As side by side they took their place 
Amid the group, now ranged around 
A pole, with various emblems crowned, 
On which was traced full many a story, 
Of Scotland's worth and Scotland's glory. 



Here Wallace led a gallant band, 
Devoted to their native land, 



22 A NIGHT ON THE 

Before whom fled a dastard crew, 
Who thought our country. to subdue ; 
Till Wallace rose and thundered, " No !' 
And clenched it with a freeman's blow. 



Beside it hung an emblem, fraught 
With deepest grief's oppressive draught : 
A godlike man appears in chains, 
Who like a god his fate, sustains : 
While round him crowd in countless throng, 
Our nature's spawn, to whom belong 
The infamy which still shall stain 
The annals of King Edward's reign, 
Who meanly dared, in pride of place, 
The noblest of the human race 
To sacrifice, because his sword 
Taught Scotsmen, that a foreign lord 
Would never o'er their native land 
Bear rule, while he had heart or hand. 



Another banner proudly waved, 
Which deeply my attention craved ; 



BANKS OF DOON. 23 

Tumultuous carnage bathed in blood, 
Swept on like a resistless flood ; 
Horseman and horse encountering fell, 
And discord deemed her native hell 
Had been transferred to earth ; thick flew 
The barbed darts ! the twanging yew 
Lent its elastic strength to send 
The sorrow to the heart, and rend 
With lightning's speed, and lightning's play, 
The mystic union — soul from clay. 



Amid the conflict, I could spy 
A gallant chief, whose eagle eye 
Sought o'er the field where best his arm 
Could work his foe the deepest harm ; 
A battle axe his right hand bore, 
On which sat death begrimed with gore, 
While round him dead and dying lay, 
All who had marred his onward way. 



With grief the adverse chiefs surveyed, 
The havoc 'mid their squadrons made ; 



24) A NIGHT ON THE 

And fiercely rushed to stem the tide, 

Which threatened to o'erwhelm the pride 

Of haughty England, and to spurn 

Her proud array from Bannockburn, 

Covered with infamy and shame, 

And branded with the hated name 

Of cowards ! " No, we will not yield, 

D' Argentine yet keeps the field," 

Exclaimed the chiefs ; then onward pressed, 

And with deep energy addressed 

Their fainting troops : " Ho ! honour's bed, 

Was never won by those who fled, 

Let's teach the Scots that England's fame, 

Shines in a sphere too high for them." 



Th' obedient troops fresh courage take, 
And a despairing effort make ; 
But Bruce's axe was in his hand — 
And round him spread his native land, 
And gallant hearts were in his train, 
Resolved their freedom to maintain, 
And Scotland's banner to display, 
Despite oppression's iron sway. 



BANKS OF DOON. 25 

Then England's vaunted prowess quailed, 
Then freedom's dauntless sons prevailed ! 
And Bannockburn to mankind tells, 
That where the love of freedom dwells 
Within the breast, the tyrant knave 
May see his blood-stained banners wave 
O'er wasted lands, but will his power 
Maintain itself one little hour 
O'er free-born hearts ? Yes, tyrants know, 
The ready arm and deadly blow 
Lye in abeyance ; see they rise, 
And retribution from the skies 
Appears, and from the earth's fair face 
Sweeps off the soul-detested race, 
And liberty's broad ensign waves, 
Above the tyrants' hated graves. 



And other emblems graced the pole. 
But time forbids to mark the whole ; 
Yet there was one which told a tale, 
Which wrung the heart with woe and wail, 
That I must not pass o'er ; it told 
What seared my heart-strings to behold! 



26 A NIGHT ON THE 

A bloated priesthood rank with power, 

Swept o'er this land in evil hour, 

With gory murder in their train, 

Whom meek-eyed mercy begged in vain 

To stay their ruthless deeds ! The maid, 

Whom common fiends would love to aid, 

The infant smiling at the breast, 

The mother who had lately pressed 

The blue-eyed cherub, vainly try 

To melt their iron souls ! their cry 

O'er Claver's rugged face would spread, 

A smile so ghastly, yet so dread,* 

That even his friends (have devil's friends ?) 

Would trembling wonder what his wrath portends ! 



Such troubles did our father's know ! 
And can it be believed, their woe 



* It is recorded of Claverhouse, that when thwarted in any of 
his measures, his countenance assumed an expression so demon- 
iacal, that even his associates in crime shrunk appalled from his 
presence. 



BANKS OF DOON. 27 

Gave pleasure to those Prelates' joy ? 
For when was ever known to cloy 
With blood, the priests, when men assail 
The creed on which they smoothly sail 
A -down life's wayward stream ? All wars 
Spring from a fiendish source ; each mars 
The social intercourse which binds 
In friendship's bonds congenial minds, 
And shakes o'er earth a blasting sword — 
Meet emblem of hell's dreaded lord. 



But what are other wars compared 
To those where Priest's right arms are bared, 
To force on men their party creeds ? 
Mere bagatelle ; a soldier's deeds, 
Though rude, may sometimes win the praise, 
That lives in gentle poet's lays, 
But when our ghostly father's lead 
The war, in vain may mercy plead. 
No soul-ennobling action sheds, 
A ray of glory round the heads 
Of those who wage a holy strife ; 
Their cry is still, " War to the knife ! 



28 A NIGHT ON THE 

Destroy, annihilate, nor spare 
The glossy locks, nor hoary hair; 
Lay waste the lands, that men no more 
May dare their Maker to adore ; 
But as to them permission's given — 
Our way's the shortest road to heaven ! ' 



And Scotland felt through all her veins, 
The horror which a land sustains, 
When Priests (those men of peace !) poured o'er 
Her hapless soil, from shore to shore, 
Fiends in the shape of men, whose hearts 
Were deeply versed in devilish arts, 
Whose joy sprung from another's woe, 
And virtue ever found a foe. 
Yes \ well our rugged glens can tell, 
The dreadful sufferings that, befel 
The covenanted of our land, 
Who dared 'gainst prelacy to stand, 
And nobly suffered every ill, 
Rather than bend to tyrants' will. 



BANKS OF DOON. 29 

Soon as the Sabbath morn would rise, 
The mountaineer in simple guise, 
Would to some rendezvous repair, 
To hear and pour an earnest prayer, 
That He, who measured out the skies, 
And spread o'er earth its varied dyes ; 
Who spoke, and straight the glorious sun 
Starts forth ! its splendid course to run, 
Scattering dark chaos and old night 
Before its cheering, heavenly light — 
Would in his tender mercy hear 
His children's plaint, and wipe the tear 
From every eye, and peace restore 
To an oppressed land, and o'er 
Men's stubborn hearts with grace preside, 
And teach them never to confide 
In earthly potentate, whose power 
Is transient as a summer shower ; 
Whose justice interest can bend, 
Whose vengeance none can comprehend ; 
Whose boasted strength ere evening's close, 
May wither in death's cold repose. 
His power, his pride, his regal sway, 
Wrapt in a lump of lifeless clay, 
c 2 



30 A NIGHT ON THE 

And see them in their wild retreat, 
As round the holy man their seat 
They take, devotion in each eye, 
Yet stern determination nigh, 
To worship God as conscience bade them, 
And God alone they sought to aid them. 



And long the night of terror reigned 
O'er Scotland, yet our sires maintained, 
Amid the gloom of that long night, 
The faith that haughty England's might 
Assailed in vain ! The dawn at last 
O'er Scotland an effulgence cast, 
Which told her enemies, their home 
Must be regained, or else a tomb 
Ignoble on her soil would rise, 
Unmarked by love or pity's sighs, 
O'er every one who dared to bind, 
In hated thrall a Scotsman's mind. 



But many were the woes that fell 
On our brave sires, ere they could quell 



BANKS OF DOON. 31 

The ruthless vengeance of a foe, 
Whose vengeance aimed a deadly blow 
At soul-ennobling liberty ! 
But soul-detested Prelacy 
Quailed 'neath the Presbyter's keen sword, 
And meanly, with its guilty lord, 
Sought in base flight a coward's fame, 
And left our ancient land the name 
She long has held, and still shall hold 
Till Time himself is worn and old — 
Of giving to her foes a grave, 
O'er which her thistles proudly wave. 



PART II. 



Indignant strains, alas ! too long 

Have kept us from the merry throng 

Who gamboled 'neath the moon's pale beam, 

On Doon's romantic classic stream ; 

Your pardon, Reader, then I crave, 

And I will study to behave 

Myself as any author should do, 

Or doubtless you in my place would do. 



Around the pole the group were placed, 
Where joke mid laugh each other chased, 
And merry faces seemed to say, 
To-night let us be blythe and gay, 
And in good Ferintosh drown care, 
That he may vex the earth nae mair. 



BANKS OF DOON. 33 



Then Tara o' Shanter rose, and all 
The group, obedient to his call, 
Were quickly seated on the ground, 
Amid a stillness as profound 
As if no living thing were nigh 
To breathe a solitary sigh. 



" Friends," thus bawled Tarn, " I'm glad to see 
Before me such a company, 
A' met to honour our creator, 
The noblest bard that ever nature, 
From her capacious womb, sent forth 
To teach the children of the north 
That Scotia's hills, and Scotia's glades, 
And Scotia's love-inspiring maids, 
Are as deserving of the praise 
That lives in the true poet's lays, 
As those who live 'neath cloudless skies, 
'Mid varied Nature's richest dyes ; 
And Burns has pictured forth our land, 
In tints so graphic, yet so bland, 
That every land has hailed his name 
As brightest in the roll of fame. 



34 A NIGHT ON THE 

Whoe'er such magic colours threw 

Around the cottar ? Morning's dew 

Falls not more softly on the flower 

That blooms beside a lady's bower, 

Than on the soul his words descend, 

And with our varied feelings blend. 

Then let us give this night to mirth, 

And dullness strangle in its birth. 

Ye Jolly Beggars tune your throats, 

And warble forth the merry notes, 

Ye sang langsyne in Pusie Nansies, 

When whiskey kittled up your fancies, 

And which Burns printed on his pages 

For benefit o' future ages. 

And now, you lasses ane and a', 

I hope you will your metal shaw, 

By adding to this joyful night 

Your soft endearing charms, that light 

Men through their mazy, wayward lives, 

As blushing sweethearts, or as wives 

That share their woes, that share their pleasure? 

And is at home their only treasures. 

Then let us all our voices raise, 

With heart and soul to sing his praise, 



BANKS OF DOON. 35 



Who gave to each a deathless name, 
And twined it with his universal fame.' 



Loud plaudits followed Tammie's speech, 

The noise I'm sure auld Ayr did reach, 

* 

Glib echo, frightened 'mid her rocks, 
Nae mair repeats their noisy jokes, 
But flies beyond Brown Carrick hill, 
And leaves the group to roar their fill. 



The plaudits o'er, the Souter rose, 
And tried his features to compose 
To something like the gravity 
Which we in public speakers' see, 
And thus began : " Ye social souls, 
Are we to sit like moping owls, 
Without a single drap o' drink 
To which our senses we might link, 
And blend them in such sweet confusion, 
That every ill would seem delusion ? 



36 A NIGHT ON THE 

Na, na, my lads ; that maunna be, 

For, faith ! John Barleycorn we'll pree 

Before anither speech is made, 

So friends you hear my say is said ; 

For, sure as I was bred a cobler, 

I hate lang speeches, drunk or sober." 



A louder plaudit greeted Johnnie, 
Than greeted his loquacious crony ; 
For every individual's drouth, 
Could testify how great the truth 
That Souter Johnnie had just spoken, 
And by this overpowering token, 
They all were dry — and well they knew, 
The cask contained pure " mountain dew," 
Made in defiance o' the law, 
And which nae gauger ever saw. 



Tam notched and leugh, and stared at Johnnie, 
Then swore aloud, " There is nae mony 
Amang the goodly company 
I hae the pleasure here to see, 



BANKS OF DOON. 37 



Would sooner second Johnnie's motion 
Than I would do ; faith, my devotion, 
To keep the glass gaun merrily, 
Has led me into mony a spree 
As weel's the ane that Burns has noted, 
And which ye a' sae aft hae quoted, 
'Bout Alloway, and thae auld witches 
Wha're but a pack o' menseless bitches, 
That's guid for naething on this earth, 
But marring o' their neighbour's mirth, 
I hope nane here will ever see, 
The wrinkled hags, if sae, may he 
Hae guid strong drink within his noddle 
And then he needna care ae boddie, 
(As Burns has said) for a' the witches 
Ere rode a broom or lap o'er ditches ; 
But I maun stop ; the Souter's dry, 
And, without li'en, sae am I." 
Anither round o' hearty cheers, 
Assailed the noble farmer's ears ; 
But I could guess, the hindmost line 
To them appeared the maist divine, 
It reached so soon their inmost parts, 
And glowed so warmly in their hearts, 



38 A NIGHT ON THE 

That, simultaneously, the crew- 
High in the air their bonnets threw, 
And uttered forth a cheering soun', 
So loud, that all the fish in Doon 
Fled from the river in sic haste, 
As if by sharks they had been chased ; 
Nor rested till they reached the sea, 
The only place were sharks can be. 
All eyes now turned upon the barrel, 
Where Rankin, perched just like a squirrel 
Out o'er a kist o' hoarded nits 
Wha's sides it fain wad seen in bits, 
That it might on the prize within, 
Luxuriate in a weel filled skin ; 
Just so did Rankin wish to see, 
The talk-engendering barley-bree, 
Transferred from the rude cask's embrace, 
Sr*fe to some more congenial place ; 
And mony kindly bosoms glowed 
Wi' sympathy, that would have stowed 
As much within its ample round, 
As would have any toper crowned 
Lord of the whistle, which, you know, 
The Danes to this land long ago 



BANKS OF DOON. 39 

Sent o'er, to show our Scottish youth, 

The mighty depth of Denmark's drouth, 

And teach them, when laid.'neath the table, 

That Odin's dauntless sons were able 

To blow the whistle, and to swill 

A goblet to their country's weal ; 

For when was e'er a Danish Lord 

Afraid a cork or yet a sword 

To draw, if love, or honour made 'em, 

Or secret inclination bade 'em. 

In ancient times, from Denmark's shore, 

Where northern seas lash Elsinore ; 

The roving Danes would proudly dare 

The perils of the deep to share, 

And seek in Scottish vales a home 

From whence they might no longer roam. 



But Danes soon found a Scotsman's sword, 
Was always quicker than his word ; 
And with reluctance left a land, 
They could not force to understand, 
How happily those nations feel, 
Who to marauding bandits kneel. 



40 A KIGHT ON THE 

Sick of the sword, yet still intent 
On conquest, Denmark forthwith sent 
A Knight, well skilled in deep carouses, 
To drive the Scots (not from their houses, 
For that they knew they were not able) 
Inglorious drunk beneath the table. 
" Then sound," thus ran the order, " Sound 
This whistle, till the rocks around 
Reverberate great Denmark's might, 
When in great Bacchus cause they fight." 



But when did e'er a Scotsman blink 
A contest, when the strife was drink ? 
No sooner was the gauntlet thrown. 
Than each one eyed it as his own, 
And vowed aloud, the Danish whistle 
Would quail before the Scottish Thistle ; 
And so it did : the Danish Knight 
Forsook our land in woeful plight, 
With muddled head, without his aim — 
Reft of his whistle and his fame. 



BANKS OF DOON. 4J 

And Scotland still the relic owns — 
And Burns has sung, in stirring tones, 
How good Craigdarroch took the field, 
And Ferguson, ne'er known to yield, 
Resolved the whistle to obtain, 
Or ne'er touch rosy wine again. 
Glenriddel, whose forbears had won 
The prize from Denmark's haughty son, 
Wi' hearty welcome met the pair, 
(Their souls congenial to a hair) 
And vowed he was right glad to see them, 
And what would stretch their stay he'd gie them. 



Their errand told, Glenriddel rose, 

And for the precious relic goes ; 

Then soon the ample table spreads 

With wines, which a rich fragrance sheds 

Around the heart ; Craigdarroch's eyes 

Turned eager on the envied prize, 

And e'er his potent senses reeled, 

Had fairly from the hard fought field, 

Inglorious sent his feebler friends 

To the repose which soft sleep lends. 
d 2 



42 A NIGHT ON THE 

And now on this auspicious night, 
Craigdarroch and the gallant Knight 
O' Maxwellton, were to be seen 
As blythe as ony on the green, 
Dispensing smiles and racy jokes, 
Which honest cheerfulness provokes. 
The good Glenriddel, too, was there, 
Wha's heart had never harboured care ; 
But if the whistle had been brought, 
I'll swear they wadna lang hae sought 
Amang the group, for ane to try 
Wha hindmaist frae the glass would fly. 
" Come, broach the barrel," every tongue 
'Proclaimed aloud ; the welkin rung 
With the loud shout, then quickly round 
The ring, the cheering whiskey found, 
Without a hindrance or grimace, 
A ready grave in every face. 



Then brighter flashed the wit ; each eyed 
With pride how swift the glasses plied 
Around the circle, spreading o'er 
Each face a joy ne'er felt before : 



BANKS OF DOON. 43 

Friends grew more friendly, laughter ran 
With open face from man to man. 
On every tongue a volume lay, 
Which all seemed eager to display, 
But not one had a single ear, 
Disposed his neighbour's crack to hear. 



" Hallo !" roared Tam, I crave attention 
For a few minutes, while I mention 
How Captain Henderson proposes 
To qualify the fearfu' doses 
O' usquebaugh, which some are drinkin', 
And which will quickly send us blinkin' 
To blanket bay, unless we eat 
To fortify oursels, some meat, 
Which will the fumes o' whiskey lay, 
And the blue devils hold at bay ; 
There's haggises prepared in plenty, 
And kippered fish by way o' dainty, 
And lots o' famous Dunlop cheese, 
Which might the greatest gourmond please ; 
In order, then, eacli take his place, 
And Holy Willie will say grace." 



44 A NIGHT ON THE 

With joy the social circle heard, 
The proffered viands were prepared, 
And round in order took their seats, 
While Holy Willie slow repeats 
A grace, I'm sure, as lang's a tether, 
And which the Souter thought a blether, 
And good for naething that he knew of, 
Save keeping folk within the view of 
The meat, which little prologue needs, 
Things which our Souter seldom heeds, 
Especially when hunger pressed 
All thoughts, save eating, from his breast. 



No sooner did the word " Amen," 
Announce the grace was at an en', 
Than saint and sinner in a crack 
The smoking dishes swift attack, 
And ply their work sae weel, that soon 
Each knife and fork, and cutty spoon, 
Were journeying in haste between 
The ready mouths and platters clean; 
It seemed as each had lost his tongue, 
Or silence o'er the group had flung 



BANKS OF DOON. 45 



Her witching influence, and spread 
O'er every heart a secret dread 
Of breaking on the ear of night 
A single joke, howe'er so bright. 
The Jolly Beggars hands hung o'er 
The well filled plates, and quickly bore 
The reeking treasure to their maws, 
O'er which their graceless, eager jaws, 
Dwelt with as much delight, as if 
It had been got by stouth and rief; 
Even Holy Willie did his best, 
And from the bottom of his vest 
Undid some buttons, that the cargo 
On which he had laid an embargo, 
Might not be forced to travel back 
For want of room, the very track 
It had so lately travelled o'er ; 
Faith, Willie, rather would sent more 
The self same w r ay, but that he feared, 
The food possession had endeared, 
Again would see the light, and bound 
In curved lines from the profound 
Of his capacious chest, and turning 
Anticipated joy to mourning. 



46 A NIGHT ON THE 

But why describe the feats of one ? 
None seemed the savoury mess to shun, 
Each ample credit did the cook, 
Nor did the billies overlook. 
The " reaming swats;" ah ! how much better 
Than penny wheep, o'er which we clatter 
On winter nights, when comrades meet 
And kindly ane anither greet, 
And o'er pap-in, the latest news 
Discuss, and what may be the views 
O' the three parties in the State, 
On the important deep debate, 
Which occupied the House three nights 
In settling o' the people's rights ; 
If they durst give their shawls for corn, 
Which from a foreign land was borne 
By gentle breezes o'er the tide, 
On which walks proudly Britain's pride ; 
Bidding the nation's quiet keep, 
Or thunder would convulse the deep, 
And sulphurous clouds the sky deform, 
More dreadful than the whirling storm. 



BANKS OF DOON. 47 

The teeth now tired, the tongue began 
The feelings of the inner man 
To represent, in terms so glowing, 
As spoke a heart at once o'erflowing 
With gratitude for mercies past, 
And wishes that they long might last. 



The fragments quickly were withdrawn, 
By magic, or some slight o' hand ; 
For in a trice the place was cleared, 
And Hornbock Holy Willie jeered 
About returning thanks, when Johnnie 
Arose, and asked, " Pray, is there ony 
Amang the group can play the fiddle ? 
If so, quick make the bow-string striddle 
Across the catgut, and we'll see, 
Wha in this jovial company 
Will suffer his twa legs to rest, 
For me, I swear, I'll do my best, 
Out o'er the green to dance and skip, 
And clap my hands, and laugh and trip, 
Frae jig to hornpipe and strathspey, 
As fast's 1*11 read the A B C ; 



48 A NIGHT ON THE 

And faster, too, and wi' mair pleasure, 
For reading, faith, I ne'er fand leisure.' 



Then forward stepp'd a " pigmy scraper," 
( Wha's chiefest joy lay in a caper, 
Or dancing bout, and well he knew 
The present was a dancing crew ;) 
The vera ane wha wi' the " Beggars," 
In Poosie Nansie's felt love's daggers 
Warm in his heart, shot from the eyes 
O' a virago, whose huge size, 
A striking contrast formed between 
The twa*, as love had ever seen ; 
And thus began poor Tweedle-dee : 
" If t please this goodly company, 
I'll do the best to wake the strings, 
Appollo o'er the fiddle flings ; 
And trust me, mony a bonny maid 
Has danced fu' lightly while I played. 
And sae I hope you will do here, 
Ere these green glades morn's livery wear." 

For the truth of this assertion, see Burns' " Jolly Beggars. 



BANKS OF DOON. 49 

The lasses lap baulk height wi' joy, 
Their pleasure seemed without alloy, 
And wantonly skipped o'er the lawn ; 
When, from an auld green bag, was drawn 
A fiddle, on which age had set 
His teeth, to mark it was in debt 
To time at least ar hundred years ; 
And ah ! -how many thousand ears 
Have listened to its cheering strains 
O'er which triumphant death now reigns. 



" But, stop/' cried Tam, " ere we begin 
To wallop to the scraper's din, 
Let rowth o' whisky punch be made, 
And due devotion to it paid ; 
And I'll be sworn ye'll dance the lighter, 
And lasses pawkey e'en glance brighter. 



A hearty round o' loud applause, 
Tarn's motion from the party draws ; 
And soon the reeking punch is brought, 
And quickly o'er each willing throat 



50 A NIGHT ON THE 

The mirth-inspiring liquor glides, 
In a rich gush o' full spring tides, 
Diffusing joy o'er every heart, 
And adding wings to Cupid's dart, 
Then soon arranged upon the green, 
Each lad and lass in pairs were seen ; 
Love wantoned in their beaming eyes, 
And mirth her ready aid supplies, 
To give that vigour to their heels 
Which sober dullness never feels. 



Then o'er the strings the fiddler drew 
His fiddlestick ; the dancer's flew 
In mazy figures o'er the green, 
O'er which still hung the beauteous Queen 
O' night ; and never did her rays 
Fall upon blyther heads ! the blaze 
Of harmony and social mirth 
Ne'er brighter glowed on this cold earth, 
Than on the spot on which I gazed, 
Wi' feelings " rapt, inspired," amazed ; 
Here some drove on the dance, while ithers 
Held social intercourse, sworn brithers 



BANKS OF DOON. 51 



To fun and frolic whereso'er 
These light-d -hearts deign to appear, 
And fun and frolic owned that night 
They ne'er saw care in sic a plight. 



While thus wi' unfeigned joy they ranted, 
And maidens mou's were freely granted 
To hair-brained chiels, a gentle breeze 
Bore slowly o'er the half-seen trees, 
A thin white mist, which stopped as soon 
As it had reached that part o' Doon 
Near where our worthies held the spree, 
That fortune fated I should see. 
Unmoved it hung, and yet the crew 
Ne'er dreamed that aught was in their view 
Wortny their notice, yet my eyes 
Were fixed upon the varying dyes 
The mist assumed, when lo ! it thinned, 
As if a gently stirring wind 
Had entered its light form, and spread 
Its fleecy wreathes alang the bed 
O' rushing Doon : I marked it well ; 
But ah ! my pen can never tell 



52 a NIGHT ON THE 

The half o' what I felt, or feel 
Even yet ; my very senses reel, 
When o'er my mind the vision steals, 
And to my sight again reveals, 
The glories of that wond'rous hour 
Which baffled art or nature's power. 



Some unseen hand the veil withdrew, 
And in the midst appeared in view 
A group of figures genius claimed, 
And 'mong her choicest favourites named, 
On shadowy couches, round whose heads 
Green laurel boughs a glory sheds. 
How did my heart dilate with pride ! 
How swiftly did my life streams glide ! 
W T hen Scotia's bards in splendour bright, 
Appeared before my ravished sight ! 
And Burns ! yes, Burns ! was there, whose eye 
Surveyed with pride the progeny 
His ever-teeming fancy bred ; 
And over which his genius spread 
Such rainbow colours, that old time 
Will see them ever in their prime, 



BANKS OF DOON. 53 



Fresh as the leaves of flowery May, 
When glistening in the morning's ray. 



Beside him stood great Scott, whose hand 

So nobly shook the magic wand, 

That distant lands attention lend, 

And o'er his wizard pages bend, 

Depriving Morpheus of her right 

Of reigning o'er the long dark night, 

And spreading on the wings of fame 

The glories of old Scotia's name. 

Among the forms I marked a youth, 

Whose face beamed innocence and truth, 

Intensely gazing on the scene 

Where joyous merriment was seen, 

Thrang dancing, drinking, singing, roaring, 

And Scotia's native songs encoring ; 

Bright beamed his eye, his brow bespoke 

The energies which first awoke 

In his young breast that thirst of fame, 

Which quenched not, till he fixed his name 

Beyond where dark oblivion lours, 

Above the reach of envy's powers ! 
E 2 



54 A NIGHT ON THE 

Few were his years, but many a woe 
And tear in a brief period flow ! 
And genius' sons oft feel the smart, 
Which rankle deepest in the heart ! 
While underneath a leaden skull, 
Securely sit the brainless dull ! 



And Ferguson, (for it was he 
I gazed on with such extacy) 
Thy modest mind but ill could brave 
Adversity's o'erwhelming wave, 
Nor knew aught of the supple wiles 
Which gain dame Fortune's golden smiles 
Thy pen no servile flattery knew, 
But independence kept in view ; 
Tears follow thy pathetic lines, 
And laughter with thy mirth entwines : 
Yet cold neglect dim'd thy bright eye, 
And left thee in thy youth — to die. 



Barbour was there, who sang of Bruce, 
And did the hero's life produce 



BANKS OF DOON. 55 

In strains so graphic, that all time 

Will still revere the lofty rhyme. 

Blind Harry, Ramsay, and Dunbar, 

Looked proudly from the fleecy car 

On their great master's works, and hailed 

The bard whom time in vain assailed 

As chief of Scotia's sons of song, 

To whom for ever will belong 

The unfading wreath which genius claims 

To twine around her votaries' names. 



Thomson was there, and Michael Bruce, 
And he* who painted for the use 
Of hen-pecked husbands, that rich tale, 
" Watty and Meg," which cannot fail 
To wake broad laughter in the heart, 
At the success of Mungo's art, 
As lang as simple nature can 
Delight, or raise the soul of man ; 
Yes these were there, and many more, 
Who fame's unfading laurels wore, 

* Alexander Wilson. 



56 A NIGHT ON THE 

Whose names to distant times will shine, 
As only second, Burns, 4;o thine ! 



And many, ah ! too many, who 
Had waked the Scottish lyre, and knew 
The varied chords which touch the heart, 
And gentlest feelings could impart. 
Or rouse the soul to deeds sublime ! 
Who built upon the sweetest rhyme, 
Those simple, those affecting strains, 
Which, while a love for truth remains, 
Will ever be to Scotsmen dear ; 
And oftentimes a struggling tear, 
Will glisten in their pensive eye, 
That names should in oblivion lye, 
So worthy of a laurelled crown, 
So worthy of a bard's renown ! 



These graced the light aerial scene, 
Intensely gazing on the green ; 
As half inclined to leave their places, 
And mingle 'mong the merry faces, 



BANKS OF DOON. 57 

Who danced, who sang old songs and new, 
And pushed about the " mountain dew" 
So briskly, that young temperance feared, 
The standard which she had upreared 
Would deep in whiskey punch be drowned, 
Amid the wild uprorious sound 
Of revelry and noisy mirth, 
Nor e'er again have place on earth* 



But who 'mong the aerial throng, 
So calmly casts his eyes along 
The merry group, then upon Burns 
His face with modest reverence turns, 
And marks within his beaming eye 
The glorious light that ne'er shall die, 
Till nature's requiem be sung, 
And time his latest peal has rung? 



'Twas Tannahill ! whose witching strains, 
While nature in the breast retains 
A spark of true poetic fire, 
Succeeding ages must admire, 



58 A NIGHT ON THE 

And proudly place his name among 
The first of Scotia's sons of song. 



Yes, Tannahill ! thy " Craigie Lee," 
And " Loudon's Woods and Braes," will see 
Far distant times ! Gleniffer Braes, 
On which thou oft hast leaned, to gaze 
On scenes our wild romantic land 
Scarce equals, live beneath thy hand. 
Here Stanely rears its crumbling form, 
Which long has stood stern winter's storm, 
And yonder Cruickston's nodding towers, 
O'er Levern's limpid streamlet lours ; 
Recalling days of other years, 
When faction bathed our land in tears ; 
When chivalry with beauty warred, 
And knights a lady's fortune marred ! 



These piles exist will in thy strains, 
When of them not a stone remains, 
To mark the strengths where feudal lords 
O'erawed the lands gained by their swords, 



BANKS OF DOON. 59 



Peace to his ashes ! all who knew 
The bard, can testify how true 
I speak, when I assert, that none 
Who, from this weary world has gone, 
To worth a brighter lustre lends, 
Or left behind him sadder friends ! 



At Burns* feet, a beauteous maid, 
In modest tartan garb arrayed, 
Reclined, and as her pensive eye 
Gazed on the bard, I marked a sigh 
Heave her fair bosom, yet a joy 
Diffused itself without alloy 
O'er her fair face, such as Raphael 
Bestows on angels, when they hail 
The beauteous boy on Mary's knee, 
Whose name hath filled both earth and sea. 



And it was " Highland Mary," who, 
From Burns' thrilling breast first drew 
Those strains, which taste and fate ordain, 
Shall ever in our hearts remain, 



60 A NIGHT ON THE 

Till memory begins to fail, 

And nature o'er us draws her veil. 



And o'er her hung the " Bonny Jean," 
Who long Burns' faithful wife had been ; 
But lately she had joined the throng, 
To whom undying names belong ! 
Yet artlessly she o'er the scene, 
Cast her bright eyes with modest mein, 
And felt that pride which matrons feel, 
(Which nature's children ne'er conceal) 
When honours on their husband's heads, 
Their country in profusion sheds. 



While thus I gazed, the scattered mist 
Contracted slowly ere I wist, 
And by degrees the tuneful throng 
Were mixed the fleecy wreaths among, 
And on the balmy breath of night, 
Evanished from my wondering sight. 



BANKS OF DOON. 61 

Still on the ground the revelry 
And mirth drave on as cheerily, 
As if they newly had begun 
To thread the mazy dance, and run 
On nimble tiptoe o'er the glade, 
With vigour that would never fade ; 
Even " Kirton Jean," as briskly set 
To Tammy as they'd newly met. 
Tarn Samson, too, weel played his part, 
And fairly overcame the heart 
O' Racer Jess, wha's pawky e'en, 
Glanced aye but where they should hae been ; 
The ne'er a reel she missed, yet still 
She bobbit at it wi' guid will, 
And swore, as lang's the fiddler's arm 
Could draw the bow across the thairm, 
She'd dance awa' till rosy east 
Had broadly hinted night had ceased ; 
But Sampson's hairum scarum capers, 
Which would have fleyed away the vapours 
Frae ony whining blockhead's brain, 
And cured him o' his fancied pain, 
Attacked the lassie fore-and-aft, 
And on her lips did so engraft 



62 A NIGHT ON THE 

His kisses, that she quarter cried, 

Yet Sampson wadna be denied 

The privilege o' his twa han's, 

A right the Racer scarce withstand ; 

The Souter, too, danced to the life, 

A reel wi' Willie Wabster's wife, 

When on the ear o' night there stole 

A sound so striking, that the whole, 

Paused in the middle of their joys, 

And wondered whence could come the noise, 

Which still increased, and seemed as though 

A giant did a bagpipe blow, 

Of more than monstrous size and strength, 

Rending the burdened air, at length 

Frae 'mang the trees came clean in view, 

A haggard, black, and gruesome crew ; 

And foremost strode the tousie chiel, 

That we denominate the deil, 

Whose bagpipes, made o' sinners' hides, 

Fu' weel the force o' roasting bides ; 

And at his back a countless thrang 

O' witches, frisking it alang 

On good broomsticks baith stiff and stark ; 

While Nanny wi' the cutty sark, 



BANKS OF DOON. 63 

Pushed boldly onwards, void o' fear, 
Resolved to taste the goodly cheer, 
Which on Doon's banks raised sic a splore, 
As ne'er on them was heard before. 



Tam was the first, though it was mirk, 
The inmates o' the haunted kirk 
O' Alloway to recognise, 
And to his comrades quickly cries, 
" Lord, lads ! the brig let's quickly gain, 
For if we langer here remain, 
We'll be the prey o' yon damned bitches, 
And wha wad be the prey o' witches !" 



Then for the brig in haste he ran, 
Nor did ae solitary man 
Remain, to bid the crew good bye, 
Or ask the deil if he was dry. 
But fled as men ne'er fled before, 
And left me trembling to deplore 
My luckless fate ; when up I got, 
Resolved to leave the frightful spot, 



64 A NIGHT ON THE BANKS OFDOON. 

Where sic like hags sae soon wad be ; 

The thought o' the proximity 

O' diels and witches I detest, 

So I got up to do ray best 

At rinning, when I came right thump 

Wi' my forehead against the stump 

O' an auld tree, which winds had reft 

O' its fair branches, and had left 

It but a bare and useless thing, 

O'er which cold wintry winds still sing. 



I fell ; but in my fall I woke, 
And started, but the spell had broke ! 
Still was the night, the moon shone clear, 
Round me did nothing strange appear ; 
Beside me gently rushed Doon's stream ; 
My vision, friends, turned out a dream ! 



LINES 

Written for, and delivered at Burns' Anniversary, 
which was celebrated in the house of Mrs. Rowan, 
Linwood, January 25th, 1837. 

Mr. James Reid, Writer, in the Chair. 



Though wint'ry winds sweep o'er our land, 
And bleak our heathy hills appear ; 

Though rude waves lash the rocky strand, 
Which circles Caledonia dear. 



Yet happiness has found a home 

Within our wild romantic vales, 

Where innocence delights to roam, 

A-listening love's impassioned tales 
f 2 



6G LINES ON 

And liberty has found our soil 
Congenial to her daring soul ; 

Where sages, deep embrowned with toil. 
Quaff inspiration from her bowl. 

Here roving Scandinavians found, 
The invader's just reward — a grave ; 

And learned too late, our native ground, 
Could thistles bear, but not a slave. 

Land of the brave ! here Wallace rose 
Against proud England's haughty lord ,* 

And boldly taught old Scotia's foes, 
The nature of a patriot's sword. 



On Bannockburn's immortal plain, 

War held a day of revelry ; 
W T here mailed chiefs strove to maintain, 

Their high renown in chivalry. 

Bruce gave the word : our father's fought 
As men had never fought before ; 

And with their swords our freedom wrought, 
And sealed the deed with English gore. 



burns' anniversary, 1837. 67 

On fame's broad wings the glowing tale, 

From east to farthest west extends ; 
And distant nations loudly hail 

The Scots, as freedom's firmest friends. 

And has no bard, with soul sublime, 

In deathless strains the heroes sung ; 
Whose fame will perish but with time — 

Whose deeds still live in every tongue ? 

Yes ! Burns has waked a living lyre, 

Whose tones o'er earth and ocean spread ; 

And clothed his strains with words of fire, 
In memory of the mighty dead. 

And he would change the martial strain, 

And sing the bright convivial hours, 
Till hoary age would feel again 

The lightness of youth's buoyant powers. 

Again he struck the magic lyre, 

And beings of unearthly mould, 
Of hideous form and aspect dire, 

His varied wizard powers unfold. 



63 LINES ON 

Again he changed his mood, his hand 
Assayed to touch a holier string, 

And tones fell on the ear more bland 
Than morning dew on flowers of spring. 

He sang of love ; and well he knew 
The rapture which a lover feels, 

When hope hides dark distrust from view, 
And life's rough path with care conceals. 

Our hardy youths, our comely maids, 
Our clay built cots, our mountains gray, 

Our crystal streams, our flowery glades, 
Still live in his immortal lay. 

And is the mighty minstrel dead, 
Who bent our passions to his will ! 

Could make us dare the " gory bed," 
Or bid the ruffled mind be still ! 

No ! Burns still lives on every tongue ; 

His fame still fresh and fresher grows ; 
His strains on Ganges banks are sung, 

And warbled 'mid Canadian snows. 



burns' anniversary, 1837. 69 

Then when the swift revolving year, 

Restores the Poet's natal day, 
Let Caledonia's sons appear, 

Due honours to his name to pay. 

And Scotchmen glory in his name ; 

And when this cherished night returns, 
With buoyant heart they'll loud proclaim 

They'll die together — Time and Burns. 



LINES 



Written on visiting Cruickston Castle. 



Thou mouldering pile, whose massy fragments lye 

Half hid in earth, with moss and weeds o'ergrown, 
Memento Mori to the passer by 

Of days long past, of ages that are gone ! 
Thy frowning battlements time has o'erthrown ; 

Thy warder's voice no more salutes the ear ! 
Where are the halls where sprightly maidens shone, 

Joined in the mazy dance, or leaned to hear 
How chieftains fought and fell, as sung by minstrel seer 



Vain man, how fragile are thy works ! the towers 
Which bid defiance to the embattled host, 

Time's viewless hand will sap ! armed with hours, 
Before him generations fall, are lost 



CRUICKSTON CASTLE. 71 

In the wide gap of ages ! fame may boast 
Her laurelled heroes, giving a deathless name 

To mortal deeds ; verse may from Lethe's coast 
Recall their memories, but can verse proclaim 

What they can hear, or feel ? Pray, what is fame ? 

Who was thy founder, Cruickston ? Can fame tell 

Who o'er thee first exerted feudal sway ? 
Tradition's dubious voice cannot dispel 

The gloom which dims thine ancient grandeur ; they 
Who saw thee in thy pride are gone for aye, 

Mixed with the mighty mass of earth, no more 
To marshal at the bugle's call, or stay 

The tide of war, which oft in days of yore 
O'er Scotia swept, and stained her fields with gore. 

Ah, hapless Mary ! Scotia's ill-starred Queen, 

Within these walls hast thou from pomp retired ; 
Here sought afar from courts the quiet scene, 

When holy love thy gentle breast inspired ; 
Hope limned the future as- thy soul desired, 

But hope's illusive touches passed away ; 
Stern faction's vengeful voice with fury fired, 

Spread o'er the land, to discord then a prey, 
And marred the sweetest flower e'er waked the poet's lay 



72 CRUICKSTON CASTLE. 

Time was, when on this spot the morning's ray- 
Fell unobstructed by thy storied towers ; 

Time saw thee, in thy pride of strength, display 

Gay flaunting banners, wreathed with Scotia's flowers 

And time exists, while ruin o'er thee lours, 
(And where are they who placed in thee their trust ?) 

Scarce noting in his course the transient hours, 
Which saw destruction on thy bulwarks thrust, 

Crumbling thy granite sinews into dust. 

And Time will be when not a stone remains 

To mark where Cruickston stood ; the giant hand 
Which prostrated thy strength, resistless reigns 

O'er the wide weltering deep and solid land 
Now, as when first some Baron gave command, 

On this green knoll, thy frowning form to raise; 
But ah ! like letters written on the sand 

Which the next tide effaces, are thy days, 
Compared to what eternal time displays ! 



Upon this spot some future sage may stray, 
And cast his scrutinizing eye around ; 

And with an anxious zeal prolong his stay, 
In hopes some relic of thee may be found 









CRUICKSTON CASTLE. 73 

To mark where Cruickston stood ; and if it crowned 
The very spot which his researches named 

As likeliest to o'erawe the country round. 

Vain hope! ere then the wild flowers will have claimed 

A right to the fair spot — thy frowning bulwarks shamed. 

Still 'neath thy shade the dreamer loves at eve, 

To call up recollections of the past ; 
And on dim visions a slim tissue weave, 

So baseless, that before an hour is past, 
Plain common sense will, like a whirling blast, 

Sweep the frail fabric from the earth's fair face, 
And o'er its ruins truth her light will cast ; 

Revealing what vain theories may chase 
For ever and a day, yet ever lose the race. 

But wherefore, Cruickston, sing of thy decay ! 

Is't meet that I, frail thing, should mourn o'er thee ! 
Thy walls will still exist when my brief stay 

Is past, and on the bosom of that sea 
Which mankind have 'yclept eternity, 

The parted atoms of this mortal frame 
Will glide along, fulfilling fate's decree ! 

Whilst thou, though crumbling from thy former fame, 
Wilt give to distant times thy ruins and thy name ! 



WARRIORS. 



Warriors ! what are they ? proud turbulent thing?) 
The right hand and prope of tyrannical kings ; 
Whose glories the tears of the orphan can show, 
And whose deeds are emblazoned 'mid ruin and woe ! 

Pale terror precedes them, disheveled and wild, 
Spreading fear and dismay where security smiled ; 
While close in their rear, famine, fleshless and wan, 
Adds despair to the horror war heaps upon man ! 

Behind them rides pestilence, fearfuller far 
Than the conqueror's sword, when he bares it for war! 
On whose banner of sackcloth desolation appears, 
And whose gifts are the grave, severed friendships, and 
tears. 



WARRIORS. 7a 

Yes ! these are the gifts which a Warrior's hands 
Confer on whoe'er dares dispute his commands ;, 
The despot's dark smile overweighs in his mind, 
The manifold ills he inflicts on mankind. 

Peace pines in their presence, and liberty hears, 
In the cannons loud boom, and the clashing of spears, 
That the fair smiling lands she had hoped was her own, 
Still groaned 'neath the knaves of the sabre and throne ! 

Should misanthropy e'er swell my bosom with hate, 
And for vengeance on man, I e'er supplicate fate ; 
On them would my deepest, my deadliest curse, 
Be a rich crop of heroes ; could mortal wish worse ? 



THE GRAVE. 



The grave is but a lonesome place ! 
True ; 'tis a place of gloom ; 
But we'll ne'er feel its loneliness, 
Nor want of room. 



Friendships are severed in the grave ! 
True ; but we know that care, 
The dark destroyer of our joys, 
Ne'er harbours there. 



Ah ! love shrinks from the loathed place ! 
True ; but grief too departs, 
Nor bursting tears, nor sighs are there, 
Nor broken hearts. 



THE GRAVE. 77 



All pleasure shuns the dreary spot ! 
True ; pain too leaves the tomb, 
And often in gay pleasure's cup, 
Will find a home. 



Then do not from the peaceful grave, 
With cold aversion fly ; 
Fate has ordained that all within 
Its folds must lye. 



If friendships, loves, and pleasures, are 
Forgotten in the grave ; 
O'er pain and grief oblivion shall 
Triumphant wave ! 






g 2 



EPISTLE 



To D. M., Paisley. 



This life's a faught, ilk Proser says, 
And Poet's picture in their lays, 
The gloomy texture & the days, 

That men are born to ; 
And spread o'er glorious earth a haze, 

They scarce can see through. 

E'en let them, D-v-e, we can tell, 
That life has joys which can dispel, 
The mirkest clouds e'er hung o'er hell, 

Raised by despair ; 
And proudly ring the funeral knell, 

O' gruesome care. 



EPISTLE TO D. M. 79 

What though misfortune's withering blast, 
Our life's horizon overcast, 
Stern resolution to the mast 

We'll firmly nail 
And boldly struggle to the last, 

Against the gale. 

With perseverance for our ^uide, 
Undauntedly we'll stem the tide, 
Till in some port secure we ride, 

Our labours o'er ; 
And to the winds our cares confide, 

Or ocean's rear. 

Will pining break misfortunes dart ? 
Will tears e'er wash away the smart 
That rankles in the throbbing heart, 

And ease the pain ? 
No ! then assay a nobler art, 

And ne'er complain. 

We'll sing the joys we twa hae seen, 
And from the past fresh matter glean, 
To crush in embryo the spleen, 
If it should rise ; 



80 EPISTLE TO D. M. 

And o'er its ruins smile serene, 
With gladdening eyes. 

Life's lusty morn, with cloudless sky, 
Raised my young fancy topmast high, 
But sage experience gave the lie, 

To youth's gay dreams ; 
And chequered life wi' many a dye 

O' cheerless beams. 



But must I lose the present hour, 
Because thick clouds around me lour ? 
Or sink beneath the pelting shower, 

O' fortunes spite ! 
No, faith ! I'll breast her utmost power, 

Wi' a' my might. 



I'll call on hope to gild the days, 
WTiich fancy to my mind displays, 
As basking in the noontide blaze 

O' future years ; 
And bid her chaunt her sweetest lays, 

To glad mine ears. 



EPISTLE TO D. M. 81 



What tho' cold poverty may try 
To swamp the bark in which I fly 
O'er broken billows, I will lye 

Firm to my oar ; 
And proudly lay her high and dry, 

On some kind shore. 



There 'mid the joys o' love forget, 

That e'er I wi' a hardship met ; 

And ban the loon would sigh and fret, 

And suck his thumbs ; 
When he might wi' some blooming Pet, 

Dispel his glooms. 



Life has its ills, I freely grant, 
Men oftentimes must lodge wi' want, 
And sometimes be devoured wi' cant, 

And ither havers ; 
When some Sir Andrew, (Sunday Saint !) 

Pours his palavers. 



82 EPISTLE TO D. M. 

Yes ! these are vexing ills, I know ; 
But must I therefore quite forego, 
The pleasures that around me flow, 

In sic profusion ; 
And on my joys heap weeds of woe ; 

'Twere a delusion. 



All nature smiles as well as I ; 
Look up ; behold yon glorious sky ! 
Look round, and see if aught can vie, 

Wi' Nature's smiles ! 
Save when they lurk in maiden's eye, 

And man beguiles. 



Then, D-v-e, smile as aft's ye can, 
Nor care tho' canting churls ban ; 
And laugh too — it becomes a man, 

And speaks his joys, 
Nae brute that e'er through forest ran 

Mak's laughing noise. 



EPISTLE TO D. M. 8.3 

And aften may we laugh together, 
O'er whiskey punch, sworn foe to either 
A sour grimace or canting blether, 

Or selfish loon ; 
Till our twa hearts turn light's a feather, 

Or Eider down*. 



* Eider Down, is the finest of all the downs. It is found in 
the nests of a certain kind of bird that inhabits the bleak and 
stormy shores of Norway ; and forms one of the articles of export 
of the inhabitants. 



TO MY WIFE. 



Source of my every joy, sweet'ner of life, 
Tried friend in hardships, enemy to strife; 
All these I find combined in thee, my Wife ! 

When jarring passions in my bosom rise, 
And reason's feeble strength no aid supplies, 
Do thou but smile, the demon discord dies. 

When pleasure's dangerous paths my steps pursue, 
And fancies' tints the syren's charms renew ; 
I pause — return — whene'er I think of you. 

W T hen friends forsake me, and when woes increase, 

And my crushed soul begs hard for its release ; 

Thy words can soothe my woes ; thy bosom yield me peace ! 



TO MY WIFE. 85 

When winter's icy hand has bared the plain, 

And southern climes the cheering sun retain ; 

Thou'lt glad my weary hours, till summer comes again. 

And when the balmy south with gentle showers, 
Recalls again to life the trees and flowers ; 
Unheeded time will fly, and days seem hours. 

When round the blazing hearth our children play, 
Hope fain would strew with flowers their onward way ; 
But sad experience doubts, and hopes bright dreams decay. 

When pale disease within our home appears ; 
Thine altered features speak thine inward fears, 
And thy swoll'n eyes betray thy hidden tears. 

Should age, (and ah ! I hope that time will spare 
My children's Mother, till her raven hair 
The silvery hue of icy winter wear,) 

Should age o'ertake us, may we still retain 

That cheerfulness which best assuages pain, 

And live in calm converse our youth-time o'er again J 



LINES TO THE MOON. 



Pale ruler of the midnight sky, 
Beneath whose beams frail mortals lye 
In balmy sleep's secure embrace, 
Or, pressed with care, find a solace 
In. inebriety's foul arms, 
Which ten-fold force gives care's alarms. 
Say, whence thy being, glorious Moon ? 
Had'st thou, like man, thy morn and noon ? 
And wilt thou fade like evening light ! 
And leave the long and darksome night 
A blank ! uncheered by thy blest beams, 
And chequered but by lightning's gleams ? 

Art thou eternal ? have thy rays, 
Which all this varied world surveys, 
For ever been the same, as now 
Thou shin'st upon this feverish brow ? 

Wer't thou created ? Did old time 
Observe thy first assay to climb 



LINES TO THE MOON. 87 

The vast, the empyrean dome, 

Where ever since thou'st found a home ? 

Imaginations airy flight, 
May soar beyond thy utmost height, 
And revel 'mid the fleecy cars, 
On which float telescopic stars ;* 
But fancy's air-drawn figures fade, 
And sober truth rejects her aid ; 
And bids us probe with careful hand 
(If we would rightly understand) 
Whate'er comes in our way, and try 
With eager philosophic eye, 
If truth with theory will join ; 
If so, then carefully entwine 
The two, and when you have it done, 
Both theory and truth are one. 

But can truth tell when thou began, 
Pale Moon, to light mole-sighted man ; 
And paint in sober light these hills, 
And glitter in a thousand rills ? 

Stars invisible to the naked eye. — Astronomer, overlook this note. 



gg LINES TO THE MOON. 

No ! but, then, theories pretend 
To teach what none can. comprehend ! 
And man may gaze upon thy light, 
And wondering eye thy silent flight 
Among the stars at evening's close, 
But of thine origin he knows 
As little as he knew, when Troy 
Received within her walls the boy 
Who bore the beauteous Greek away, 
And furnished Homer with a lay 
Which will, till thee, and mankind fail. 
Float first on fame's inspiring gale. 

Float on, bright Moon ! thy silver light 
A charm lends to the lonely night, 
Which flaunting day cannot impart 
To the o'erlaboured aching heart, 
And when beneath thy beams I stray, 
May calm reflection stretch away, 
To where coy science opes her store, 
And sheds on man her sacred lore ; 
Till knowledge elevates my soul, 
And passion bends to learning's mild controul. 



RONALD AND ELLEN. 



" Quickly, quickly launch the boat, 

The sun sinks in the sea ; 
And ere it lights yon eastern sky, 

In Morven I must be. 

Black Diarmid to the north has gone, 

With a well armed band ; 
Fair Ellen's father him invites, 

And promises her hand. 

Her page just now has brought me word, 

That she on me will wait, 

To-morrow at the dawn of day 

Before her father's gate. 
h 2 



90 RONALD AND ELLEN. 

Then ply your oars, stretch every nerve, 
The moon will light our way ;" 

So spake brave Ronald ; quick his men 
His keen behest obey. 

Swift scuds the boat, its sharpened prow, 
The dashing waves divide ; 

So nimbly flies the generous steed, 
When urged by skilful guide. 

By Jura's lofty isle they sweep, 
And Scarba's rocky shore ; 

Colonsay's wave- worn beach they pass, 
Where billows weltering roar. 

And ere the morn with rosy light, 
Had tinged the eastern sky ; 

On Morven's shore the gallant band 
Was marching fearlessly. 

Within a wood's obscure recess, 
Brave Ronald placed his band ; 

^nd sought alone the trysting gate, 
Where anxiously did stand 



RONALD AND ELLEN. 91 

Fair Ellen ! and the morning's ray 

Ne'er welcomer appeared 
To storm tossed mariner, whose bark 

Some unknown coast had neared, 

Than did fair Ellen's faultless form 

Appear in Ronald's eyes ; 
And soon within his folding arms, 

The trembling maiden lyes. 

" Forbear ! forbear !" began the maid, 

" Too long we tarry here, 
For soon as e'er the morning dawns, 

The call, " To horse !" we'll hear. 

For o'er our hills, where bounds the roe, 

As soon as it is day, 
With Diarmid and his merry men, 

My father will away, 

To wake the echoes of our glens, 

A-hunting of the deer ; 
So quickly let us leave this place, 

Where danger lurks so near !" 



92 RONALD AND ELLEN. 

And soon they roused brave Ronald's men ; 

And soon they reached the shore, 
And soon in ocean's liquid breast, 

They dip the bending oar. 

Bright rose the morn, the winds were fair ; 

And ere the evening closed, 
On Erin's shore, their labours passed, 

In safety they reposed. 

And scarcely had the rosy morn 
Revealed the mountains grey ; 

When from the castle issued forth, 
In hunting's proud array, 

A gallant band of merry men, 

As e'er trode dewy green, 
On whose bold brows sat ruddy health, 

All wreathed in smiles I ween. 

And well trained dogs, whose eager scent 

Could trace the wary deer ; 
In fawning gambols, seemed as though 

They knew that sport was near. 



RONALD AND ELLEN. 93 

And ladies' from the windows looked 

Upon the gallants gay ; 
And felt inclined to join the chace, 

And share the joyful day. 

To Ellen's window Diarmid's eye 

Oft turned, in hopes that she 
Whose peerless form he long had loved, 

He might that morning see. 

But ah ! in vain his searching eye 

Surveyed the stately pile ; 
No maid was there to greet his glance, 

Or cheer him with her smile. 

For, far on ocean's bounding waves, 

The gallant vessel bore 
Fair Ellen from her native land, 

To seek a distant shore. 

A cloud hung o'er dark Diarmid's brow, 

And heavy was his mind ; 
But with an air that spoke content, 

He soon the hunters joined. 



94< RONALD AND ELLEN. 

And soon the swelling bugle's note, 
From hills and dales rebound ; 

Which raised the wild deer from their lairs, 
To mark the dreaded sound. 

And soon on nimble foot they o'er 

The correi sweep aloDg ; 
And trembling seek the distant glens, 

To shun the cruel wrong, 

Which selfish man inflicts on those 
Who should his mercies share ; 

But in the hunter's cruel heart, 
Such qualities are rare. 

The day wore on, and in the hall 
Were maids and matrons gay, 

All wondering what could keep the bride 
That morn so long away. 

Her mother to her chamber went 
And knocked, but all in vain ; 

A silence which forboded ill, 
Then filled her mind with pain. 



RONALD AND ELLEN. 95 

'.' Art thou asleep ? my Ellen rise ; 

The day wears on apace, 
And soon on weary steeds our guests, 

Arrive will from the chace." 

No answer did her daughter send, 

Her troubles to dispel, 
And soon the sound of woe and wail, 

Her dark misgivings tell. 

" My child ! my child !" broke on all ears ; 

" With speed break up the door," 
And soon the yielding bolts they forced, 

And then their hopes were o'er ; 

For Ellen's bed unpressed appeared, 

And every thing I ween, 
Bore witness that no living thing 

Within the room had been. 

Distraction sat on every face ; 

Wild terror seized each heart ! 
For nothing they could think upon, 

Did the least hope impart. 



96 RONALD AND ELLEN. 

" Haste ! fly ! pursue ! go search the lake !" 

Exclaimed, in accents wild, 
The trembling mother, " Haste ! will none 

Restore to me my child !" 

But where were they to fly, or search, 

Or how could they pursue, 
When none within the castle's walls 

Aught of her purpose knew ? 

While thus confusion filled their minds, 

A bugle loud and clear, 
Came floating slowly on the gale, 

Which spoke the hunters near. 

Its tones spoke joy, for success had 

Repaid their labours well ; 
But little did they dream that woe, 

So soon their mirth would quell. 

The ladies' wailings smote their ears, 
Before they reached the wall ; 

And wondering what could be the cause, 
They hurried to the hall. 



RONALD AND ELLEN. 97 

Where soon they learned the woeful tale, 

But what were they to do ? 
Or how resolve a mystery, 

Which wore so dark a hue ? 

Sad doubtings filled her father's breast ; 

His thoughts on Ronald fell, 
For he had known they were betrothed, 

And loved each other well. 

But would his daughter seek alone, 

The distant Thane's abode ; 
Or trust her tender form, to dare 

The dangers of the road ? 

But where was Ellen, whose sweet voice 

Was wont at eve to still 
The dark emotions of his soul, 

And mould him to her will ? 

Far, far on ocean's bounding waves, 

A willing exile she ; 

To shun the man to whom her heart, 

Had never bent the knee, 
i 



98 RONALD AND ELLEN. 

Dark thoughts spread over Diarmid's soul, 
And high his crest he reared, 

And in his vengeful eye, at once 
The inner man appeared. 

" Bring forth the bride I long have loved :*' 

In accents loud spoke he, 
" I came at your request, nor will 

A Diarmid mocked be ! 

Mark well ! I see through your deceit. 

And turn it into scorn ; 
And here stands one who swears, that ne'er 

Shall man of woman born, 

Keep what I've set my heart upon ; 

If so, a trunkless ball 
His head shall roll upon the heath. 

I swear it, traitors all ! 

And whosoe'er your daughter weds, 
Must sup on this bright sword ! 

And for a bridal bed, a grave 
My kindness will afford." 






RONALD AND ELLEN. gg 

" Our daughter's gone we know not where," 

Replied the weeping dame ; 
" Restrain your wrath, and time will show 

That we are not to blame. 

We thought this morn to see her yours, 

And joy filled all our hearts ; 
And lo ! ere noon has crowned the day, 

Deep grief her woe imparts."' 

" Yes ! deepest grief hangs on our hearts," 

Outspake fair Ellen's sire ; 
But while he spoke, beneath his tears 

There beamed a latent fire ; 

Which quickly kindled into rage, 

And roused his drooping soul ; 
While upon Diarmid's form, his eyes 

In wild defiance roll. 

" Yes ! deepest griefs oppress our hearts, 

But joy blends with our woe, 
That Ellen, whom we dearly love, 

Did not her hand bestow 



100 RONALD AND ELLEN. 

On one unworthy of her love, 
Whose gloomy sour can ne'er 

Spread joy around the household hearth, 
Or smile away a tear. 

We pledged thee, Ellen would be thine, 

And ah ! we dearly pay 
For daring love and nature's laws. 

So far to disobey. 

Hence ! from this hour our friendship ends ; 

I will no parlance yield, 
To one who dares my faith to doubt, 

While I ray brand can wield. 

If Ellen seeks young Ronald's ha', 

My blessing too is there, 
That minds congenial may impart, 

Those joys you ne'er can share." 

Dark loured the Diarmid's shaggy brow, 
And rage flashed from his eye, 

So looks a wint'ry night, when storms 
Sweep hurling through the sky. 



RONALD AND ELLEN. 101 

" And is it thus/' he foaming cried, 

" You dare my rage defy ! 
Confusion mark me for her own, 

If I do not untie 

The knot which binds the haughty maid 

To Ronald, whom I scorn ; 
And teach her sire to understand, 

How pleasant 'tis to mourn. 

The deeds a-doing in this land, 

Will lay the highest low ; 
And, mark me, I'll remember well 

To whom I kindness owe. 

Go hide your daughter where you will, 

I'll find her, do not fear ; 
And teach the beardless boy she loves, 

The nature of my spear." 

With that he wheeled his horse about, 

And furious down the glen, 
With frenzied speed sought his own home, 

With all his merry men. 

i 2 



102 RONALD AND ELLEN. 

The Diarmid gone, with anxious care, 
They sought both -wood and dell ; 

But hope gave way to dark despair, 
When shades of evening fell. 

Their child ! the child they lov'd, was gone, 
Forced from her home to flee ; 

To shun the man she could not love, 
She dared the treacherous sea. 

With deep remorse they called to mind, 
How Ellen sought with tears, 

To drive them from their fixed intent, 
And dissipate her fears. 

But ah ! her pleadings were in vain, 
And now they feel the smart ; 

Which wrings with grief the selfish soul, 
And rankles in the heart. 

Meantime, amid green Erin's hills, 
Young Ronald soothed his bride ; 

But often would she call to mind, 
When she, her parents pride. 



RONALD AND ELLEN. 103 

Would climb the mountain's shaggy side, 

Or thread the mazy glen ; 
And watch the soaring eagle's flight, 

Far from the haunts of men. 

She thought, too, with what bitter grief 

Their bosoms would be wrung ; 
And tears would dim her beaming eye, 

And speech forsake her tongue. 

But then she thought upon her love, 

And all her strength returned ; 
And from her mind the Diarmid's hand, 

Her soul indignant spurned. 

While thus alternate joy and grief, 

Their gentle bosoms filled ; 
Many-tongued rumour brought them word, 

Earl Marr had ta'en the field, 

To place a tyrant on the throne, 

Britannia had sworn 
Should ne'er again be occupied 

By one of Stuart born. 



104 RONALD AND ELLEN. 

The news roused Ronald's eager soul, 
And soon he left the land, 

Where hospitality still opes 
To the distressed her hand. 

The wind was fair ; the gliding bark 
Soon reached famed Morven's shore 

And soon to Ellen's father's home, 
Young Ronald Ellen bore. 

A joyful welcome they received, 
From Ellen's parents, who 

Had feared that ne'er again their child 
Would her loved haunts review. 

Forgiveness passed on either side, 
Love ruled the hallowed hour ; 

And 'mid their joys they quite forgot, 
The storm that 'gan to lour 

O'er Scotland, and that 'mid the strife 

An outcast might return ; 
To rule those lands his cruelties 
Had often made to mourn. 



RONALD AND ELLEN. 1 05 

At length the all-engrossing theme, 

Stole on their joyful hours ; 
How Marr had landed in the north, 

With overwhelming powers, 

To raise again the Stuart name ; 

And on our soil once more, 
Plant persecution's noxious seed, 

And tyranny restore. 

" I'll go for one !" brave Ronald cried, 

" Argyle, I understand, 
Is raising forces to sweep off 

The traitor from our land. 

Who stays at home when danger threats 

His country, is a knave ; 
O'er whom fair liberty will ne'er 

Her cheering banner wave." 

" And will you leave us," Ellen cried, 

" When joy dissolves our woe ; 
Must I so soon your absence mourn, 

No, Ronald, love cries no ! 



OG RONALD AND ELLEN. 

Too long we have estranged been, 

From our beloved land, 
And must our young hopes blighted be, 

When pleasure opes her hand ? 

Leave war a while, our toils demand 

Rest for our labours past ; 
And let not our first taste of joy, 

Be doomed to be our last." 

Then out-spoke Ellen's valient sire, 
" My daughter, urge not so ; 

'Tis fitting that your gallant spouse, 
Should seek his country's foe. 

The time demands that every man, 

Should to the field repair, 
And boldly try to stem the tide, 

Which blood-stained traitors dare 

To pour on this unhappy land, 
For their own selfish ends ; 

No ! Ronald, up, my inmost soul 
Thy brave resolve commends." 



RONALD AND ELLEN. 107 

The Diarmid's threats, when from this hall 

He angrily did go ; 
I now can plainly understand, 

But then, how could I know 

That he had leagued himself with those, 

Who would o'erturn our laws, 
And trample on those sacred rights, 

We gained in freedom's cause ? 

With Marr he now leads on his men ; 

And if success them aid, 
These walls assuredly will fall 

Before his battle blade. 

But liberty will point the way, 

And nerve each Briton's hand, 
To rise and sweep from off our soil, 

The miscreants of our land ; 

Who, spite of freedom's holy laws, 

A despot would restore, 
To tyrannize o'er those whose souls 

A tyrant's deeds abhor." 



108 RONALD AND ELLEN. 

<• I'll seek the traitor in the field !" 
Brave Ronald firm replied ; 

" No arm, I hope, will prove his might, 
Till I have him defied. 

To-morrow, by the dawn of day, 
I'll leave these happy towers ; 

And lend what little strength I have, 
To aid my sovereign's powers." 

And morning saw him on his way, 

To join the great Argyle, 
Whose troops on the famed Sheriff-moor, 

Began now to defile. 

And soon he joined the proud array, 
And soon the trumpets blare, 

Aroused each soldier to his arms, 
The deadly strife to share. 

From rank to rank the whizzing deaths, 
Sped o'er th' ensanguined plain ; 

And many sireless children wept, 
Their fathers that day slain ! 



RONALD AND ELLEN. 109 

'Mid the fierce onslaught, Ronald spied 

The Diarmid straining sore, 
To force a squadron from its post, 

Who Argyle's standard bore. 

As darts the eagle on its prey, 

At Diarmid Ronald flies ; 
And " Traitor, here is other work," 

Exultingly he cries. 

I feared some other hand had paid 

The debt to you I owe ; 
But fate ordains, that to my sword 

Alone pertains the blow.'* 

Dark vengeance flashed from Diarmid's eyes, 

While thus young Ronald spoke ; 
And from his foaming mouth these words, 

In furious accents broke : 

" Curse of my life ! Ha ! I will drain 

Thy life-blood from thy heart, 
Ere from this fatal field one inch 

Thy soul or body part. 






110 RONALD AND ELLEN. 

I ne'er hoped fate would prove so kind, 

Such favours to bestow ; 
Or, by the fiends of hell I swear, 

Fd sought no other foe." 

No farther words between them passed ; 

Death sat upon their swords ! 
And shook his fleshless arms, and grinned 

A smile, that well accords 

With the wild havoc war commits, 

When proud ambition leads, 
Like beasts of prey, her armed bands, 

To work her hellish deeds. 

They pause ; their eager eyes explore 

With caution most profound, 
Where they might safest on their foe 

Inflict a fatal wound. 

And wounds they gave ; yet still their strength 

Grew with their rising ire ; 
Remembrance shadowed forth the past, 

And hate their souls inspire ! 



RONALD AND ELLEN. ill 

At Ronald's breast a deadly blow, 

The furious Diarmid threw ; 
" Take that, infernal boy !" he cried ; 

But Ronald nimbly drew 

Aside from the impending blow, 

And on the traitor's head, 
With well directed fury came, 

And stretched him with the dead ! 

I will not sing what more befel, 

Upon that dreadful day ; 
Nor how Argyle from Scotia's shore, 

The rebels forced away. 

Suffice it, Ronald found his bride 

Safe in her father's ha' ; 
And future years of bliss repaid, 

The ills their youth-time saw. 



BE W A RE! 



There's danger in the courtly ha', 

When young hearts mingle there ; 
If prudence keep not whispering, 

Beware ! 

When pleasure with her syren smiles, 

Adorns herself with care ; 
Let innocence repeat the word, 

Beware ! 

When maids too ready yield assent, 

Be cautious of the fair ; 
And learn, ere 'tis too late, the word, 

Beware ! 



BEWARE. 113 

If friendships flatter, pause, and weigh 

Its value to a hair ; 
And if it do not kick the beam, 

Beware ! 

Proffered advice do not despise ; 

But mark if it will square 
With the adviser's life, if not, 

Beware ! 

When ostentatious sour grimace 

Proclaims aloud a prayer ; 
O fail not to remember well, 

Beware ! 

Though hope should make your coming years, 
• A glowing colouring wear ; 
Be sure you paint o'er her gay dreams, 

Beware ! 

When tyrants talk of liberty, 

And would your secrets share ; 

Let caution stamp upon your lips, 

Beware 
k 2 



114f INSCRIPTION. 

Caution, the child of prudence is ; 

O nurse her then with care ; 
She'll paint on your projected acts, 

Beware ! 



INSCRIPTION FOR A DRINKING CUP. 



Churl ! withdraw thy lips ; the generous ale 
Which mantles o'er my brim is not for thee ; 
But ye whose bosoms melt at pity's tale, 
Draw near — quaff deep — my bottom see ; 
My mistress will again replenish me. 



LINES 

Written on seeing a Lady who had been forsaken by 
her Lover, for one who, if she had less of nature's, 
had more of the world's riches. 



A gentle smile played o'er her face; 

But 'neath that smile there lay, 
A shade of melancholy hue, 

It could not chase away. 



A tear-drop glistened in her eye ; 

Which art could not conceal ; 
And all ! her flattering tongue too well 

Did all her griefs reveal. 



116 LINES WRITTEN ON A YOUNG LADY. 

But ah ! disease will often lurk, 

Beneath a rosy smile ; 
And falsehood clothe with honied words, 

A tongue formed to beguile. 

And selfish man too oft o'erlooks, 

The wrongs to woman done ; 
And Ellen's lover stained his faith, 

A guilty course to run. 

Unto a lady rich and gay, 

His broken vows he gave ; 
And thought amid the heartless throng 

Remorse's sting to brave. 

But conscience wrung his guilty soul 

Within the giddy hall ; 
And sleep forsook his downy couch ; 

Nor answered at his call : 

While she, who could have soothed his grief, 

With cloudless mind can go, 
Where solitudes extend their shade : 

And limpid streamlets flow ; 



LINES WRITTEN ON A YOUNG LADY. 117 

And ponder o'er the happy hours 

She passed, ere doubt and care 
Had dimmed the brightness of her soul, 

And placed a canker there. 

Yet still an unreproving mind, 

Beams from her languid eye, 
And oft a smile will light her face, 

On which a tear may lie. 



AGE AND YOUTH. 



Go boast your rotten walls, ye ancient towns : 

Extol your Goth-like structures to the skies ; 
Antiquity may robe herself with frowns, 

And on youth look with rheum- o'erflo wing eyes, 
And wonder at the impudence which lies, 

*"Neath the smooth surface of a joyous smile ; 
Let her ! affected wisdom I despise, 

And hate the twisted dogmas would embroil 
The flow'ry hours of youth in ages withering toil. 



Youth's smile breathes of the morning, and dispels 
The cold dim vapours of the cheerless night ; 

Youth revels in the glory which impels 
The soul to a more lofty, nobler flight ! 



AGE AND YOUTH. 119 

Eyes the blue vault with exquisite delight ; 

Breathes the light air, and wantons in the gale ; 
Basks 'mid the sun-lit flowers, and from some height 

Surveys great nature all her charms unveil, 
And fearless on life's stream unfurls her venturous sail. 



Age notes with peering eye the ways of man ; 

With calculating care explores his way ; 
Gloats o'er his hoarded heaps with visage wan, 

And moralizes on the young and gay, 
Forgetting that he too has had his day ; 

When in the mantling bowl he caution drowned ; 
When locked in beauties witching arms he lay, 

And felt, as all must feel, the bliss profound, 
With which the rosy hours of buoyant youth are 
crowned. 



Hope wreaths the brows of youth with gentlest flowers 
Distrust spreads thorns before the steps of age ; 

Youth wanders 'mid gay nature's sweetest bowers, 
And finds enjoyment writ on every page 



120 AGE AND YOUTH. 

Of her great book : not so the wary sage ; 

He doubts, examines with a cautious eye, 
And half rejects what most his thoughts engage. 

Youth sees behind dark clouds the azure sky ; 
Age sees dark shadow's germ in evening's gorgeous 
dye. 



Age is unlovely, I confess ; and cold 

And passionless. I do not mean to say, 
That every passion leaves man when he's old, 

But that 'tis the most generous that decay. 
Love never wantons amid locks grown grey ; 

Even friendship wears a most unfriendly smile ; 
While selfishness will shamelessly display 

Her cold repulsive features, harsh and vile, 
And hug herself when she the unwary can beguile. 



And yet we would be aged ; who would lie 
In the cold narrow house ! with frenzied hand 

The suicide may rend the bands which tie 
His being to the earth, but reason's wand 



AGE AND YOUTH. 121 

Ere then will have relinquished its command, 

And churlish desolation have o'erspread 
Mind's glorious essence, twisting a rope of sand 

Round the frail being, whose convulsive dread 
Of death, lays him 'mong those he feared — the peaceful 
dead! 



O youth ! brief is thy laughter-loving space ; 

Transient as meteor's sweep across the sky ; 
Care waits to fold thee in its cold embrace, 

And age will dim the lustre of thine eye. 
Then seize the precious moments as they fly ; 

Trust not to coming years, or days, or hours, 
" The present moment is our ain,"* then try 

To wreath it with love's sweetest, choicest flowers, 
Ere palsied age steals on, and o'er your prospect lours. 

* Old Song. 



GOLD versus FAME. 



I will not write for fame, 

It were an idle thing ; 
Pray, what is in a name, 

About which young fools sing ? 
A morning's mist which melts away, 
Before the glorious orb of day. 



Who has it, can fame tell ? 

Say Homer, he is one, 
And Virgil, on whom fell 
The robe of Greece's son : 
And Burns, and Shakespeare, grant you these, 
And ten times more if that will please. 



gold versus fame. 

Well ! do these warmer lie, 

Within their hallowed graves, 
Than those who unknown die, 
And o'er whom Lethe's waves 
Pass with a cheerless, sullen sweep, 
And wrap in dark oblivion's sleep. 



123 



Within the cold, cold tomb, 
All vain distinction ends ! 
The wretch without a home, 
The man with many friends, 
Lie undistinguished in the clay, 
Peacefully crumbling to decay ! 



Gold has a pleasing sound, 

It captivates the ear, 
It makes our joys abound — 
Even stays the starting tear ; 
It is both lords and ladies' theme, 
And glitter's in the miser's dream. 



124 gold versus fame. 

It gives respect to fools, 

Gives age the smile of youth, 
Can buy the wit of schools — 
Nay, turn aside even truth ; 
Makes priests, I'm told, forget their pray'rs, 
And widows sport a maiden's airs. 



Then let us give the palm to gold, 
Which has such varied powers ; 
We love its features to behold, 
And joy to call it ours. 
On air-built castles fame reposes, 
Gold wantons amid beds of roses. ' 



LINES 

Written on reading Lander's Voyage down the Niger. 



The enigma's solved, and Niger now can claim, 

A right to throw its waters in the sea ; 
False theories, too, have been put to shame ; 

And, Lander ! it is owing unto thee, 
That we can on our maps with certainty, 

Delineate the stream whose mazy flow, 
Had, since the days of the great Ptolomy 

Baffled the search of those who wished to know 
Where thou thy waste of waters didst bestow. 

Some learned men affirmed the Niger threw 

Its mass of waters in some mighty lake, 
But where 'twas situated no man knew ; 

Perhaps 'twas better, for conjecture's sake, 

l2 



126 ON LANDER'S VOYAGE DOWN THE NIGER. 

Man did not know ; then theorists could make 
A system which their genius would display, 

And of our ignorance advantage take ; 

Besides, who could what they advanced gainsay, 

When error had so dimmed truth's searching ray. 



Others affirmed the Niger was the Nile, 

Because Park saw its waters eastward roll ; 
The sight, too, made him half forget his toil ; 

And joy extatic would expand his soul, 
When gazing on the waters as they stole 

Away to the far east to meet the sun, 
And saw, as he conceived, the very goal 

To which his wishes tended, fairly won ; 
A triumph worthy Scotia's hardy son. 



Bruce saw, too, as the famous Nile he traced, 
A river called the White flow from the west, 

Of larger volume than the one which graced 
The Abyssinian vales, so it was pressed 



ON LANDER'S VOYAGE DOWN THE NIGER. 127 

Into the service of some dreaming pest, 

Who ne'er had from his garret two days been, 

As proof sufficient to consign to rest 
The question, if the Niger may be seen 

Rolling where Memphis' crumbling temples lean ? 



Others again, affirmed, the thirsty sun 

Sucked up the Niger's waters to the skies, 
And thereby leaving Africa o'errun 

With burning deserts, which no drink supplies 
To the parched traveller, who vainly tries 

To thread its vast interminable plains, 
Where savage beast to savage beast replies, 

And scarce less savage man his life sustains, 
By acts* which on our kind imprint such hellish stains. 



But perseverance and a daring mind, 
Enabled thee, O Lander! to dispel 



• The inhabitants of some parts of Africa were in the habit of 
entraping their neighbours — carrying them to the coast, and selling 
them to their European visitors for slaves. 



128 ON LANDER'S VOYAGE DOWN THE NIGER. 

The mists which ignorance to truth had joined ; 

And fames' loud trumpet will to mankind tell, 
The dear-bought knowledge which all time will swell 

To notes of admiration in thy praise ; 
And science proudly from her mystic cell, 

Will hail thy name as worthy of the bays, 
Which grateful man to modest genius pays. 



When Afric's burning climes have been explored, 

And hostile tribes to peace shall bend the knee ; 
When blacks no longer are by whites abhorred, 

And her dark sons have tasted liberty ; 
With gratitude they'll proudly mention thee, 

Whom fortune first through unknown regions led, 
To where the Niger mingles with the sea ; 

And opes her many mouths where yet will spread, 
Far distant nations' sails above her oozy bed. 



MORNING. 



Light struggles in the east, the lark's shrill song 

Salutes the new-born day, and hill and dale 
Refreshed, bursts on the sight ; while from among 

Yon aged trees, the thin blue mists slow sail 
Across the lawn, borne by the gentle gale, 

And congregate upon the mountain's side; 
The fragrant flowers, their painted forms unveil, 

And stars, night's offspring, leave the skies and hide 
Their tiny forms within morn's blazing tide. 

O ! ye, who nightly over mantling bowls, 

Consume those hours ye should devote to sleep ; 
Come view this glorious scene, and let your souls 

Drink in the pleasure nature's children reap, 
When they her simple laws devoutly keep ; 

Come, look upon the Morning, and survey 
The varied landscape girdling in the deep ; 

And as you gaze upon the bright display, 
Acknowledge nature's power, and her mild laws obey. 



THURSDAY NIGHT'S COMPLAINT. 



Day was declining in the west, 
As on Gleniffer's heath-clad crest, 
In musing mood I careless strayed, 
And, with elated mind, surveyed 
The varied scene which stretched away 
To where the Grampian hills display 
Their scathed and rugged foreheads high, 
Against the azure northern sky. 



Beneath me towns and cities lay, 
And smiling fields and woodlands gay ; 
And far beyond, the winding Clyde 
Swept on to mingle with the tide, 
Where commerce, buoyed on restless waves, 
Fearless, the whirling tempest braves. 



THURSDAY NIGHT'S COMPLAINT. 131 

But soon beyond the western main, 
The glorious sun resigned his reign ; 
And evening drew her sombre veil, 
Wi' unfelt hand o'er hill and dale. 
So home by where old Stanley's towers, 
O'er the surrounding country lours, 
T bent my steps ; the growing night 
Soon swallowed up the fading light, 
And meteors swept across the sky, 
And stars looked from their windows high : 
Clouds heavily lay on the hills, 
From which ran murmuring restless rills ; 
While on the ear of night there fell, 
The tones o' Paisley's ten-hour bell. 



Wi' quickened step I Lownsdale passed, 
And Maxwellton had neared at last, 
When 'tween me and the northern sky, 
A queerish figure struck mine eye, 
Slow sailing on the brow o' night, 
Which filled my soul with sudden fright ; 
An ample mantle did infold 
Its form, through which the stars, like gold, 



Shone with a scarce diminished ray, 

As onwards still it winged its way. 

To FultorCs dyke at last it flies, 

And southward cast its wishful eyes — 

As if to penetrate the shade, 

Which night on nature's face had laid ; 

At length, grief labouring in its breast, 

Its wounded feelings thus the thing exprest 



" I wonder from my inmost soul, 
What demon holds in its controul, 
My social, my respected frien', 
The governor o' Stanley Green. 
Since first a market was ordained 
In Paisley, I have always reigned 
O'er Thursday nights ; and mony a splore 
I've witnessed wi' the farmer core ; 
And, faith, a blyther set ne'er graced 
A public-house, when warmly placed, 
Than farmers : trouth, a Highland gill, 
Wi' speldings and gude Embro yill, 
Will gar them laugh and crack as though 
They hadna half a mile to go ; 



THURSDAY NIGHT'S COMPLAINT. 133 

Then winds without with winds may war, 
And lightning sweep and thunder jar ; 
If warmly set, the liquor gude, 
And frien's are roun' in jovial mood, 
Storms may their fiercest wrath display, 
It boots not, deil a hair care they. 



But ne'er sin' I began to reign, 
Or ca' a market night my ain, 
Had I a subject pleased me, 
For gifts or grace like J-m-e L — . 
For mony a year he's lent his aid, 
In Friday's morn to see me laid 
Wi' a' due honours ; yet, this night 
I maun retire without the sight 
O' him on whom I lang hae doted, 
And whase wise sayings aft hae quoted. 
I've searched every but and ben, 
'Tween Alison's and the west en', 
But all in vain ; his cheering voice, 
Which aft has made my heart rejoice, 
I couldna hear, nor can conjecture, 
Which is at best o' flimsy texture, 



134 THURSDAY NIGHT'S COMPLAINT. 

Aid me in fathoming the cause, 
Why he his countenance withdraws 
From me this night ; gude saf s ! can he 
The temperance society 
Hae joined ? and lent his name to those 
Wha are my most inveterate foes ; 
Robbing me o' my choicest frien's, 
Wi' essence o' curst coffee beans. 
If so, then fareweel fun and frolic, 
And welcome ginger beer and colic ; 
Plain common sense may e'en go hang, 
Or join some melancholius gang, 
Where soon, I'll swear, 'till melt awa', 
Like ice when south-winds bring a thaw. 



Change-keepers now may soundly sleep, 
Or by their ingles sit and weep ; 
Nae mair within their wa's they'll see, 
The stately form o' J-m-e L — , 
Dispensing mirth and " mountain dew," 
And poetry whiles screeding too, 
O' his ain writing, and his muse 
Can wit and satire baith infuse 



THURSDAY NIGHT'S COMPLAINT. 135 

Into his lines, well worth the praise 

Which truth to honest genius pays. 

O ! soon will Friday's morn be here 

To take ray place, and she will speir, 

Wi' her first breath, where she may see 

Her choicest favourite, J-m-e L — 

I'll no can tell her ; 'od she's here ! 

I see her in the east appear, 

Crowned with a galaxy o' stars ; 

While round her float vast fleecy cars, 

Which men call clouds — a glorious sight ! — 

Slow sailing on the verge of night ; 

From which bright streamers dart away, 

O'er heaven's high arch in sportive play. 

I'm weary now, my task is o'er. 

And my swollen heart says, " Speak no more." 

'•' Good night," she cried, then, like a maid forlorn, 

She buried herself deep in Friday's morn. 



TO A BRIDE. 



Who would not be a bride ? what joy 

Lights up her laughing eye ; 
Life seems a sweet without alloy ; 
And cloudless is the sky 
Which on her sheds its gentlest beams ; 
And ah ! how ravishing her dreams. 

A flood of bliss fills ali her breast, 

Hope strews her path with flowers : 
Her lips with sweetest smiles are drest 
And rosy are the hours 
Which dance attendance in her train, 
And brighten her too transient reign. 

Mar not her joys ; alas ! too soon 

Reality will show, 
That fleeting as the changing moon, 

Or ocean's ebb and flow, 



TO A BRIDE. 137 

Are the vain dreams which fancy weaves, 
And inexperienced youth believes. 

The mountains bathed in morning's glow, 

With pride their peaks display ; 
But vapours congregate below, 
Which, ere the close of day, 
Will oft o'er vale and mountain's head, 
Their leaden, cheerless influence shed. 

So her young morn may cloudless rise, 

And smiles of pleasure wear ; 
But ah ! experience this truth buys — 
Young dreams are based on air. 
That hopes bright promises are vain, 
And life's gay hours are linked with pain ! 

Enjoy thy present bliss, fair bride ; 

And if a wish can stay 
The ills that chequer life's brief tide, 
Or smooth its rugged way ; 
Content will still thy steps attend, 
And you will never want a friend. 



m 2 



THE OLD MAN'S SOLILOQUY. 



Now lyart leaves are strewn around 

My ruined cottage door, 
And weeds on every spot abound, 

Where flowers bloomed heretofore : 
And hoary now is grown my hair. 

And lustreless mine eye ; 
And ah ! my trembling steps declare. 

Frail man, the hour is nigh 

Which will consign thee to the grave, 
Where care can ne'er intrude ; 

Where soundly sleep the fool, and knave. 
The wicked and the good ! 

The hero in that place of rest, 
Ne'er hears the trumpet's sound ; 



THE OLD MAN'S SOLILOQUY. 139 

The coward's agitated breast 
Sleeps 'neath the grassy mound, 

As still as is the midnight hour, 

When winds forget to blow ; 
As heedless of a tyrant's power, 

As of the streamlet's flow. 
Yet memory proudly holds her place, 

Within my ruined form ; 
To weary age a bright solace, 

A sunbeam 'mid a storm. 

The days, the happy days of youth 

Pass by me in review, 
When hope assumed the garb of truth, 

And life no sorrow knew ! 
When friendship, decked in wreathed smiles, 

The hue of summer wore, 
And pleasure spread her magic wiles, 

My buoyant steps before ; 

And love infused into my soul, 
Rapture's spring-tide of Wiss, 



140 THE OLD MAN'S SOLILOQUY. 

And Anna's arms appeared the goal, 

Of unmixed happiness. 
Where now is friendship ? where the friends 

With whom I have been gay ? 
Some wander far in distant lands, 

Some sleep beneath the clay ! 

And where is now the blooming bride, 

I to my father's ha' 
Conducted wi' sae meikle pride, 

She too is ta'en awa* : 
And I am left, a useless thing, 

Unheeded by the throng, 
Who dream not as they blithely sing, 

That time will change their song : 

That friendships will at last decay, 

That smiles will turn to tears ; 
That weariness will fill the day, 

And nights seem drawn to years. 
O ! weary, weary are the nights, 

The helpless aged feel, 
And feeble are the fading lights 

The future can reveal. 



THE OLD MAN'S SOLILOQUY. 141 

The grave is but a darksome place, 

I know, wherein to dwell ; 
And icy-cold is death's embrace, 

And solemn is the knell 
Which sounds within my ringing ears, 

And warns me hence away ! 
I wait death's bidding, at my years 

'Twere lengthening grief to stay. 



I WADNA GIE THE WITCHING SMILES. 



1 wadna gie the witching smiles, 
That lurk in lovely woman's e'e, 

For a' the fame ambition's wiles 
Could promise to bestow on me. 

I wadna gie a social hour 

For goud ; for what is goud to me ? 
Nor would I prize a princely dower, 

If purchased wi' my liberty. 

This life's a flower o' feeble form, 
O'er which fate's sternest blasts aft blaw 

But sunny blinks whiles gild the storm, 
And love's the sweetest blink o* a'. 

Then seize the moments as they rise, 
When love laughs in fair woman's e'e ; 

And friendship's sweet endearing ties, 
Gae foretaste o' what heaven may be. 



F INLAY. 



Should ever care invade your rest, 

And tak' possession o y your breast ; 

Ye may dislodge the gnawing pest, 

By visiting Will Finlay. 



Care winna stay within the place, 
Where he sets up his honest face ; 
Even discontent and sour grimace. 
Flee when they hear o' Finlay. 



Phrenologists, I'm tauld, hae hit 
The very bump where lodges wit. 
But nature legibly has writ 
It everywhere on Finlay. 



144 



FINLAY. 

And satire slides frae aff his pen 
So glibly, that we brawly ken, 
Knaves aft will hide 'mang honest men, 
To shun the lash o' Finlay. 



Then if you would the carlin, care, 
Destroy, gang down at e'en and share 
Twa stoups o' Alison's best ware, 
Between yoursel' and Finlay. 



And I'll be sworn, the gruesome chiel 
May dance attendance where he will, 
But he'll ne'er come within the biel 
Where floats the laugh o' Finlay. 



THE YOUNG HERO. 



Lightly he strode o'er the heath in the morning, 

White showed his plume as it waved in the gale ; 
His eye sought the fight, every danger a-scorning, 

His sword gleamed a meteor, fore-runner of wail. 
He mixed in the battle, the foe fled before him, 

Ere weary and wounded he sunk on the plain ; 
From the red field of fight as his brave soldiers bore him, 

Indignant his soul spurn'd its mansion of pain. 

Dark evening now shrouds him ; pale, mangled and gory, 

The bugles shrill summons floats o'er him in vain ; 
Ah ! short was his course, but 'twas brilliant with glory, 

And in victory it set 'mid the foes he had slain. 
The maid of his bosom may sigh for his coming, 

But Henry will ne'er to his Mary return ; 
On a far distant shore the wild pibroch is thrumming, 

A dirge sad and slow o'er her loved hero's urn. 



THE SCOTTISH EXILE. 



Afar o'er the main lies the land o' my fathers ; 

Afar from these wilds lives the maid I adore ; 
While here broken-hearted, as cold evening gathers, 

I wearily sigh and my hard fate deplore. 
Here in a desert unknown and unknowing, 
Where cataracts roar and wide rivers are flowing ; 
I sigh for the land where the thistle is growing, 

The land of my father's, the land of the free. 

In fancy I paint how in life's sprightly morning, 
I crested, old Scotia, thy mountains sublime ; 
Or guided the skiff o'er the rivers, adorning 

Her gay smiling valleys so fragrant with thyme. 
But ah ! sad reality dims the sweet vision, 
And points to the wilderness round in derision, 
And bids me remember my former condition 
No longer, for fate dooms I ne'er can return ! 



O, NO! JAMIE LAD. 147 

But, Caledonia ! though wide seas us sever, 
Thy songs will recall thy loved image to me ; 

And these rocks will re-echo those strains that will ever 
Be chaunted by those who have dared to be free. 

Yes ! when of Doon at mild evening I'm singing, 

And wi' " Gleniffer's Braes," a' these valleys are ringing ; 

The strains, my dear Mary, to me will be bringing 
Remembrance of home, of my father's and thee ! 



O, NO ! JAMIE LAD. 

O, no ! Jamie lad, 

I'll ne'er come back again ; 
So urge nae mair my langer stay, 

Though I should gang alane. 
My father's poor, his living's sma', 

Nor comfort has but me ; 
My mother's grave has lang been green, 

Aneath yon willow tree. 

My mother's death fu' sair was felt, 

By my auld dad and me ; 
And lang I thought his heart would break 

Aft feared that he would dee. 



148 O, NO ! JAMIE LAD. 

For him the smiles played on my cheek, 
While tears stood in each eye ; 

Him soothed wi' words, while I could scarce 
Suppress the rising sigh ! 

Your father's rich, has flocks enow, 

And mony a bonnie field ; 
Then why a simple maid pursue, 

Bred in a turfen bield ? 
The fairest lady in the strath, 

Wi* joy your heart would share ; 
Then let me gang, and oh ! forget 

To think on Ellen mair : 

But seldom I'm sae lang frae hame, 

He'll wonder at my stay ; 
I maun awa' ere gloaming steal 

O'er fast declining day. 
Wi' secret joy young Jamie heard, 

The maiden's tender fears ; 
And as he pressed her to his breast, 

Thus strove to dry her tears : 

Your father's in my father's ha', 
But now I saw him there ; 






ON GENERAL RIEGO. 149 

He stays, that Ellen may consent 

My home and heart to share : 
Then come wi' me, and share the joys 

Your presence will impart ; 
Nor let, my Ellen, fear o'ercloud 

The sunshine of thy heart. 

A tear-drop glistened in her eye, 

Which Jamie kissed away ; 
A maiden blush spread o'er her face, 

Like morning's earliest ray. 
And soon within young Jamie's ha', 

The youthfu' pair were joined ; 
And future years gave cause to bliss, 

The wreath that love had twined. 



WRITTEN 



On Reading in the Newspapers an Account of the 
Martyrdom of General Riego. 

Riego's blood now stains the land, 
Which freedom hailed at his command ; 
To glut the rage of Ferdinand, 
For daring to be free ! 



150 ON GENERAL RIEGO. 

A priesthood, servile, base and vain, 
With slavish nobles in their train, 
Round freedom's neck had wound a chain ; 
Had stifled liberty. 

Riego saw his country's woes, 
And to avenge them boldly rose, 
To wrest the power from grasp of those 
Who dreaded liberty ! 

Iberia's sons his standard joined, 
They slavery's badge with joy resigned ; 
And King and Priest in bounds confined, 
Sacred to liberty ! 

But vengeful superstition came 
From Gallia, led by Angouleme ; 
And, traitors ! blasted be their name ! 
Have sold Spain's liberty. 

Riego ! when the page of fame 

Time will unroll, which patriots claim ; 

In colours bright will shine thy name, 

'Mong those who dared be free. 



A SOLDIER'S NAME. 

At glory's call I bade adieu, 

To scenes my early manhood knew. 

And o'er the world, regardless flew, 

Of aught save fame ; 
The prize I ever held in view, 

A soldier's name. 

Love whispered stay, and love has wiles, 
In dimpled cheeks and rosy smiles, 
Which the young fancy oft beguiles, 

From nobler aim ; 
But pleasure's path 1 shunned, it soils 

A soldier's name. 

War's varied ills unmoved I bore, 
The weary march, the hostile shore, 
Where thousands weltering in their gore, 

Aloud proclaim 
The dangers he must dare, who wore 

A soldier's name. 

The trumpet's blare, the cannon's boom, 
The warrior hurrying to his doom, 



152 CALDER GLEN. 

The sulphurous cloud which veils in gloom 

The bloody game. 
Twine round the glories which illume 

A soldier's name. 

Reflection came with riper years ; 
Shorn of its glory war appears ; 
While truth and reason, in my ears 

Aloud proclaim, 
'Tis based on blood and widow's tears ! 

A soldier's name. 



CALDER GLEN. 

They say I canna mak' a sang ; 

I'll try and sing o' thee, 
If ye'll gang to the Calder Glen, 

My Mary, love, wi' me. 
Thine eye will fire the dullest pen, 

Thy lips the coldest heart ; 
Thy smile will to the bonny Glen 

A richer hue impart. 



ANNA. 153 

The flowers will wear a sweeter smile, 

To see a maid like thee ; 
And winds to wanton in thy hair 

Will leave the flowery lea. 
The gladsome birds will cease their song, 

If Mary deigns to sing ; 
And echo will the notes prolong, 

Till a' Glen Calder ring. 

The stream will linger as it glides, 

Thy fairy form to see ; 
And murmuring seek the distant tides, 

Afar frae love and thee. 
Then come with me, where nature blends 

The lovely with the wild, 
And truth a cloudless lustre lends 

To scenes where love has smiled. 



ANNA. 

Anna ! when the opening lilies 

Deck the gay parterre, 
Stray where Hawkhead's woods are waving 

I will meet thee there. 



154 ANNA. 

On the flower-enameled meadow, 
'Neath some favourite tree, 

We will lean us, nor remember 
Low is our degree. 

Anna ! when the fragrant roses 

Shed a rich perfume, 
And the vales umbrageous wanton 

In the pride of bloom : 

We will leave the crowded city ; 

Love ne'er harbours there ; 
But seeks the calm retreats where nature 

Sports her beauties rare. 

Anna ! when the leafless forest 
Groans 'neath winter's blast ; 

And pearly streams arrested own 
Its influence vast. 

Then fancy's airy wing will bring, 
Glimpses of summer's prime ; 

And hope still point to sunny hours, 
Hid in the womb of time. 



NIGHT HER SABLE CLOUD. 155 

Anna ! when bleak age has furrowed 

O'er thy forehead fair ; 
And time with unfelt hand has silvered, 

Thy now raven hair : 

We'll call to mind our early joys, 

And smile our cares away ; 
Nor let regret arise to dim 

The dreams of love's young day. 



NOW NIGHT HER SABLE CLOUD HAS 
SPREAD. 

Tune,—" Ye banks and braes." 

Now night her sable cloud has spread, 

And silence dwells at Ferguslie ; 
Nae twinkling star now glads the night, 

Which cheerless hangs o'er tower and tree. 
Alane these fairy scenes I tread, 

Beneath cold evening's mirkest gloom, 
And mourn a maid I lang had loved, 

Whom death has reft in beauties* bloom. 



156 NIGHT HER SABLE CLOUD. 

Ye broomy knowes where oft we sat, 

When eve had dimm'd declining day ; 
Ye shady woods, where still at eve 

The mavis pours his mellow lay : 
Farewell ! farewell ! to distant lands 

Fate wills that I afar must roam, 
To seek beyond Atlantic's waves, 

Far from these hallowed scenes, a home! 

But distant lands will ne'er estrange, 

This heart from scenes I'll aye hold dear ; 
Where oft I've felt joy's sweetest thrill, 

Where now I shed the bitter tear. 
Strange hills may rise, and orange groves 

With pride their golden fruit display ; 
But Ferguslie and her I loved, 

Will gild my memory's latest ray. 



PAISLEY: 

Stereotyped avd Printed by J. Nelson. 






MMHHI 



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